THE 
LITTLE 
HUGUENOT 


MAX  PEMBERTON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
WILLIAM  P.  WREDHJ 


THE  LITTLE  HUGUENOT" 


MAX    PEMBERTON. 


"THE 

LITTLE  HUGUENOT 

B  "Romance  of  jfontafnebleau 


BY 

MAX   PEMBERTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  IMPREGNABLE  CITY,"  ETC 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

1895 


COPYRIGHT  1895,  BT 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PACK 

PEPIN  is  BLESSED 7 

CHAPTER  II. 
AT  THE  GATE  OF  THE  CHATEAU 19 

CHAPTER  III. 
GABRIELLE  DE  VERNET 26 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  KINGFISHER  AND  THE  CROWS 37 

CHAPTER  V. 
THE  ABBE  GONDY  COUNTS  HIS  SPOONS 49 

CHAPTER  VI. 
IN  THE  BOWER  OF  VIOLETS 57 

CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  ABBE  GONDY  WRITES  A  SERMON 70 


762541 


Contents. 
CHAPTER  VIII. 

PAGE 

MASKING  IN  THE  WOODS 82 

CHAPTER  IX. 
PEPIN  MAKES  A  BARGAIN 99 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  PRIEST 107 

CHAPTER  XI. 
THE  ABB£  AND  THE  TREE 122 

CHAPTER  XII. 
DE  GUYON  HEARS  THE  NEWS 133 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  APPARITION 143 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  KING  SUPS 159 

CHAPTER  XV. 
EXODUS , 171 


"The  Little  {luguenot," 


CHAPTER   I. 

PEPIN   IS  BLESSED. 

THE  priest  had  a  volume  of  Cicero 
upon  his  lap,  and  in  his  right  hand 
there  was  a  rosary  carved  of  amber 
and  of  gold.  Though  the  sun's  beams 
fell  soft  in  the  glen,  and  the  grass  was 
green  and  rich,  and  a  canopy  of  young 
leaves  cast  welcome  shade  upon  his 
face,  he  continued  to  read  the  oration 
upon  which  his  eyes  had  fallen,  and 
to  banish  those  seductive  whisperings 
of  the  devil,  that  he  should  lay  him- 
self down  and  sleep.  Insensible  to 
the  wooing  music  of  the  gushing  cas- 
cade, or  to  that  stillness  which  had 
come  upon  all  nature  as  the  heat  of 
7 


"The  Little  Huguenot" 

the  day  fell,  he  maintained  a  fine 
rigidity  of  posture  as  he  sat  upright 
upon  a  boulder  of  stone,  and  bent  his 
whole  soul  to  the  study  of  the  black- 
lettered  text  before  him.  Hours 
passed  and  found  his  attitude  un- 
changed ;  a  distant  church  bell  chimed 
the  quarters  dolefully,  and  drew  from 
him  no  other  response  than  the  mut- 
ter of  an  Ave;  the  shadows  in  the  glen 
lengthened  and  lengthened  ;  even  the 
first  freshness  of  night  breathed  upon 
the  forest,  and  left  him  insensible  to 
all  but  those  problems  of  his  faith 
which  crowded  upon  his  mind. 

Death  and  sleep  and  eternity  !  A 
priest  may  think  even  of  these.  Six 
years  before  this  year,  1772,  Pere  Ca- 
vaignac  was  far  too  busy  snatching 
souls  in  Paris  to  trouble  himself  with 
those  more  subtle  reasonings  to  which 
a  new  philosophy  had  turned.  But 
here  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  of 
Fontainebleau,  it  was  otherwise.  The 
very  atmosphere  seemed  dream-giv- 
ing and  full  of  spells.  The  unbroken 
silence  of  the  thickets,  the  music  of 
8 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

the  glittering  falls,  the  dark  places 
of  pools  and  caverns,  threw  back  the 
man's  mind  upon  itself,  and  wrung 
from  him  the  question,  To  what  end  ? 
Why  was  he  an  exile  from  the  capi- 
tal ?  Why  was  his  home  a  hut  of  logs 
hidden  even  from  the  eyes  of  the 
woodlanders  ?  For  what  cause  did 
he  eat  black  bread  and  drink  sour 
wine  ?  That  he  might  sleep  for  ever 
after  death  as  he  had  slept  through 
eternity  before  his  birth  ?  Night  and 
the  new  philosophy  told  him  that 
here  was  his  answer  ;  day  and  the 
soul's  voice  rekindled  his  faith  so  that 
he  seemed  to  behold  the  Christ  walk- 
ing in  the  forest  before  him.  And 
in  these  moments,  the  remembrance 
that  he  was  a  hunted  man,  that  when 
next  he  looked  upon  the  city  that  he 
loved  it  would  be  for  the  last  time, 
exalted  his  whole  being,  and  lifted 
him  up  in  visions  to  the  gates  of 
heaven  itself. 

Night  began  to  come  down  in  ear- 
nest when  at  last  the  Jesuit  closed  his 
book.  He  had  sat  so  still  in  his 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

meditation  that  a  deer  thrust  herself 
through  the  bracken  not  fifty  yards 
from  him,  and  drank  undisturbed  at 
the  rippling  brook.  A  great  eagle 
was  soaring  high  above  him  ;  and  oft 
as  he  listened  he  could  hear  the  crafty 
patter  of  a  wolf  or  the  screech  of  a 
heron  in  the  distant  marsh.  There 
was  no  tongue  of  the  forest  with 
which  six  years  of  exile  had  not  made 
him  familiar ;  no  note  of  bird  or 
beast  that  was  novel  enough  to  carry 
his  mind  from  the  path  it  followed. 
From  man  alone  he  turned,  hiding 
himself  in  the  very  depths  of  the  brack- 
en, frequenting  the  darker  caves,  lurk- 
ing in  the  glens  where  the  springs  bub- 
bled and  the  adder  sunned  himself. 
It  was  not  alone  that  the  edict  of  ban- 
ishment which  had  fallen  upon  his 
Order  made  men  a  danger  to  him. 
He  had  been  indiscreet  enough  to  be- 
lieve that  the  broad  principles  of  his 
faith  were  meant  to  bind  prince  and 
peasant  alike  ;  and  he  had  even  de- 
nounced the  profligacy  of  kings  from 
the  pulpit ;  and  this  with  so  fanatical 


"  The  Little  Huguenot." 

a  zeal  that  men  cried,  "  Here  is  a 
new  Ravaillac — let  his  Majesty  be- 
ware of  him  !"  From  that  day  there 
was  no  den  dark  enough  to  hide  him 
in  Paris,  no  friend  so  powerful  that 
he  could  find  shelter  in  his  house. 
He  fled  to  the  forest,  and  lurked  there 
waiting  and  watching,  as  his  rector 
had  commanded  him. 

The  deer  drank  at  the  stream,  and 
bounded  into  the  thicket  again  ;  the 
silver  birches  swayed  their  branches 
before  the  gentle  west  wind  ;  a  clock 
in  the  distant  village  chimed  the  hour 
of  seven.  The  priest  rose  from  his 
seat,  and  wrapped  himself  in  the 
warm  black  cape  which  served  him 
for  cloak  by  day  and  blanket  by 
night.  Then  he  forced  his  way 
through  the  bushes  and  struck  upon 
a  narrow,  bramble-hidden  path  which 
carried  him  out  upon  the  lawn-like 
sward  above.  Here  were  great 
gnarled  oaks  and  groves  of  yoke- 
elms  ;  undulating  sweeps  of  the  finest 
grass  land  all  carpeted  with  violets  ; 
pools  deep  down  in  the  shady  glades  ; 
ii 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


even  beaches  of  the  finest  yellow  sand, 
where  the  brooklets  made  music  in 
their  pebbly  beds.  But  the  Jesuit 
had  eyes  for  none  of  these  things. 
He  stood  at  the  glen's  head,  motion- 
less, irresolute,  perhaps  even  fearful. 
A  small  company  of  mounted  men 
had  debouched  from  the  opposite 
wood  ;  and  seeing  him,  one  of  their 
number  set  spurs  to  the  beast  he  rode 
and  galloped  furiously  across  the 
grass. 

The  man  was  ill-dressed,  and  odd 
enough  to  be  remarkable  anywhere. 
He  wore  a  leather  jerkin  about  his 
body,  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat  with 
the  stump  of  a  feather  in  it.  His 
calves  were  bound  round  with  strips 
of  bright  green  cloth,  and  his  breeches 
were  balloon-shaped  and  of  prodig- 
ious size.  He  had  a  pair  of  little 
twinkling  eyes  which  danced  like  the 
flame  of  a  candle  in  the  wind,  and 
his  cheeks  were  so  fat  that  rolls  of 
flesh  almost  hid  his  mouth.  For 
sword  he  carried  a  cudgel  of  black 
wood  ;  and  from  the  holster,  where 
12 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


his  pistols  should  have  been,  the  end 
of  a  four-holed  flageolet  protruded. 
But  conspicuous  among  his  accoutre- 
ments was  a  wine-skin  with  little  in 
it,  and  this  he  held  his  hand  upon 
lovingly  while  he  addressed  the 
Jesuit. 

"  Holy  Mother  of  God,  defend  me 
from  all  devils  !"  said  he,  surveying 
the  motionless  priest  with  some  curi- 
osity ;  and  then,  in  quick  correction, 
he  added  : 

"  Thy  blessing,  my  father  !" 

The  Jesuit  turned  upon  him  a  swift, 
searching  glance. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?" 
he  asked  in  a  hard,  cold,  rarely  used 
voice. 

"  No  other  service  than  one  of 
charity,  most  reverend  sir.  I  am  a 
man  of  peace,  as  you  may  observe, 
carrying  no  other  weapon  than  that 
which  may  rob  men  of  their  feet — to 
wit,  may  set  them  to  the  dance,  the 
ballad,  the  pasquil  and  those  light 
enjoyments  of  the  flesh  which  our 
master  Horace  has  even  deigned  to 

13 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


commend  on  occasion.  And  now  for 
my  sins,  for  which  I  pray  the  inter- 
cession of  my  holy  patron,  whose 
honourable  name  I  happen  to  have 
forgotten,  I — who  know  the  forest 
better  than  the  Mass  book — am  lost 
in  this  tangle  at  a  moment  when  the 
natural  humour  of  man  leads  him  to 
meat  and  even  to  a  cup  of  wine. 
Take  me  to  these,  my  father,  and  I 
will  jingle  so  many  silver  pieces  in 
your  hand  that  a  whole  legion  of 
souls  shall  to-morrow  go  dancing  out 
of  purgatory." 

The  man  stopped  for  want  of 
breath.  The  priest  was  about  to 
plunge  again  into  the  thicket,  leaving 
him  unanswered,  when  the  others  of 
the  cavalcade  rode  up,  and  the  leader, 
who  was  dressed  in  the  uniform  of 
the  king's  musketeers,  reined  in  his 
horse  and  doffed  his  plumed  hat  to 
the  ecclesiastic. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  am  a  lieutenant 
of  the  guard  bound  upon  a  mission 
from  his  Majesty  to  the  Chateau  aux 
Loups,  which,  as  you  may  be  aware, 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

is  the  residence  of  Madame  La  Com- 
tesse  de  Vernet.  If  you  can  set  us 
on  the  way  thither " 

"  Or  to  any  decent  inn  where  we 
may  find  food  and  drink,"  chimed  in 
the  first  fellow. 

"  Pepin,  keep  your  tongue  still." 

"  Nay,  my  captain,  there  is  no 
hand  in  France  strong  enough  to 
hold  it." 

"  If  you  can  set  us,  I  say,  on  the 
road  thither,"  continued  the  other, 
ignoring  his  servant,  and  addressing 
the  Jesuit,  "  I  will  see  that  we  do  not 
forget  the  service." 

The  priest  had  looked  up  quickly 
at  the  mention  of  the  Chateau  aux 
Loups.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  to 
be  occupied  counting  the  number  of 
the  escort,  and  this  the  leader  of  it 
observed. 

"  Fear  nothing  from  these  men, 
sir,"  said  he,  "  my  mission  is  an 
honourable  one,  and  will  be  welcome 
to  the  countess.  By  the  Mass,  she 
should  be  glad  of  a  little  company  in 
such  a  wilderness  as  this." 
15 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Your  mission  is  an  honourable 
one — and  yet  you  come  from  the 
king,  sir?"  said  the  priest  now  look- 
ing the  lieutenant  full  in  the  face. 

"  Aye,  honourable,  indeed,"  inter- 
rupted the  buffoon,  Pepin  ;  "  and 
hark  ye,  my  father,  another  word 
such  as  that  and  I  will  even  lay  my 
cudgel  on  your  back.  The  devil  take 
you  for  a  loutish  brawler.  I  would 
as  soon  talk  with  a  throaty  Spaniard." 

"  Pepin,  if  you  do  not  keep  your 
tongue  still,  I  will  cut  it  out,"  said 
the  Lieutenant  de  Guyon,  turning 
round  lazily  in  his  saddle. 

"  Aye,  my  master,  that  would  be  a 
service,  for  on  my  life  it  is  as  dry  as 
a  peppercorn." 

The  priest  had  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing deeply  while  servant  and  master 
thus  disputed.  In  truth,  a  hundred 
questions  were  troubling  him.  Why 
had  de  Guyon,  a  notorious  tool  of  du 
Barry,  come  with  an  escort  of  six 
musketeers  and  this  clown  to  the  re- 
treat of  Gabrielle  de  Vernet  ?  "What 
evil  did  the  visit  portend  ?  Of  what 
16 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


meaning  was  it  to  him  personally — 
or  to  his  Order,  which  had  found  in 
the  girlish  mistress  of  the  chateau  one 
of  its  sincerest  friends  ?  Before  he 
could  answer  any  single  suggestion, 
the  captain  of  the  band  spoke  again. 

"  I  am  awaiting  your  answer,  my  fa- 
ther. You  have  heard  of  madame  ?" 

The  priest  answered  slowly. 

"  So  surely  have  I  heard  of  her, 
and  of  the  holy  way  she  walks,  that 
if  I  thought  you  had  come  here  mean- 
ing any  ill  to  her,  I  would  strike  you 
down  with  my  own  hand.  Paul  de 
Guyon,  look  where  you  go,  lest  you 
lose  the  path  and  your  eyes  be  blind- 
ed. You  talk  to  me  of  an  honourable 
mission,  but  what  of  honour  hath  the 
king  with  Gabrielle  de  Vernet  ? 
Speak  no  lies  lest  the  Almighty  God 
blast  them  on  your  lips." 

He  stood  with  arm  outstretched 
and  fire  in  his  eyes,  and  for  a  moment 
the  other  quailed  before  him  ;  but  de 
Guyon  recovered  himself  quickly, 
and  cloaking  his  anger  as  he  might, 
he  gave  rein  to  his  horse. 

17 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Did  our  time  not  press,  master 
priest,"  said  he,  "  I  would  pause 
awhile  to  knock  sense  into  your  head 
with  the  flat  of  my  sword.  A  curse 
on  you  and  your  warnings,  too.  We 
will  even  find  the  chateau  for  our- 
selves." 

He  turned  away  making  a  sign  to 
his  men  ;  but  the  buffoon  bent  down 
from  his  saddle  and  placed  a  hand 
upon  the  priest's  shoulder. 

"  Benedicite  !  holy  father,"  said 
he,  "  but  you  are  free  with  your 
warnings.  And  hark  ye,  I,  Pepin 
the  fool,  have  a  word  of  warning 
also.  Get  to  your  hut,  Francois 
Cavaignac,  for  I  recognise  you,  and 
by  the  blessed  Host  I  will  have  you 
hanged  as  high  as  yonder  elm." 

The  priest's  hand  trembled  for  a 
moment  upon  the  hilt  of  the  dagger 
which  his  cassock  concealed.  But  it 
was  only  for  a  moment.  Conquering 
his  temper,  and  disdaining  other 
weapon  than  his  fist,  he  suddenly 
dealt  the  jester  a  rousing  box  on  the 
ear,  and  then  plunged  into  the  thicket. 
18 


CHAPTER  II. 

AT    THE    GATE    OF    THE    CHATEAU. 

PEPIN  rubbed  his  ear  ruefully,  and 
sat  looking  at  the  bushes  wherein  the 
priest  had  disappeared. 

"Dog  of  a  Jesuit,"  he  muttered, 
"  if  you  had  stayed " 

He  made  an  ugly  grimace  with  the 
words,  and  finished  what  wine  there 
was  in  the  skin.  Then,  remembering 
that  the  others  had  now  ridden  out 
of  hearing,  he  set  spurs  to  his  mule 
and  galloped  after  them. 

"  So  the  priest  boxed  your  ears  ?" 
said  de  Guyon,  surveying  him  with 
some  amusement. 

"  Parbleu-!  Excellency,  he  did  but 
give  me  his  benediction." 

"  I  wish  he  had  knocked  some  sense 
into  your  head." 

"  Would  you  cry  '  A  miracle  !  '  mon 
maitre  T ' 

19 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  I  would  cry  anything  you  please 
if  it  would  set  me  on  the  road  again. 
I  thought  you  knew  every  path  in  the 
forest.  You  told  me  so  when  I  en- 
gaged you  at  the  Barriere  d'Enfer. " 

"  Aye,  and  that  is  so,  sir.  Every 
path  I  know,  and  yet  which  path  is 
which,  the  devil  take  me  if  I  can  say. 
Look  yonder  now  ;  there  is  a  grove 
of  yoke-elms  with  a  wood  of  pines 
beyond  it,  and  a  brook  hollow  be- 
twixt and  between.  I  could  name  a 
hundred  such  within  ten  leagues  from 
the  Table  du  Roi.  Oh,  truly,  mon 
maitre,  I  know  the  forest  as  a  horse 
knows  the  stable." 

De  Guyon,  whose  beast  stumbled 
often  upon  the  sandy  track,  and 
whose  patience  was  fast  ebbing,  an- 
swered him  with  a  fresh  objurgation 
— long  and  lasting.  It  was  now  near 
to  being  full  dark,  and  but  for  the 
light  of  the  moonbeams,  which  fell 
soft  upon  copse  and  thicket  and 
seemed  to  cast  a  snowy  mantle — so 
white  it  was — upon  every  leaf  and 
bush,  the  way  would  have  been  im- 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

possible.  Yet  the  scene  was  one  of 
exceeding  beauty.  The  shiver  of  the 
aspen,  the  ripple  of  brook  or  stream, 
the  long-drawn  note  of  a  night  bird 
intensified  the  dreamy  silence  of  the 
forest.  Here  and  there  when  a  horse 
forced  his  way  through  the  bramble 
with  a  snap  of  twigs  and  a  rustle  of 
boughs,  a  wolf  sprang  out  of  his  cover 
and  raced  across  the  sward.  The 
shimmer  of  the  light  in  many  a  glade 
showed  stags  browsing,  or  wild  ponies 
herding.  But  of  habitation  there  was 
no  sign,  nor  of  man. 

The  little  troop  must  have  left  the 
priest  twenty  minutes  before  de 
Guyon  resumed  his  conversation  with 
the  rogue  who  had  led  him  on  such  a 
fool's  errand.  The  stillness  of  the 
forest  and  the  spell  of  the  night, 
wedded  to  his  fatigue,  had  quelled 
the  words  upon  his  lips,  and  com- 
pelled him  to  remember  upon  what 
emprise  he  was  embarked.  He  be- 
gan to  wonder  by  what  manner  of 
cunning  and  tale  he  should  lead 
"  the  little  Huguenot,"  Gabrielle  de 


"The  Little  Huguenot.' 


Vernet,  from  her  nest  in  the  forest 
to  the  intrigues  and  dangers  of  the 
palace.  He  asked  himself  if  all  the 
stories  of  her  wit  and  beauty  were 
the  mere  fancies  of  her  friends,  or 
pretty  realities  which  he  must  know 
and  cope  with.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  met  her  once  at  Paris  in  the 
house  of  her  cousin  Claude  Vernet, 
the  painter  ;  but  that  was  two  years 
ago,  immediately  after  the  death  of 
her  husband,  Comte  de  Vernet,  the 
uncompromising  foe  to  the  Catholic 
faith,  and  before  she  withdrew  to  the 
chateau  to  put  into  practice  a  creed 
built  on  the  confession  of  the  Savoy- 
ard Vicar,  added  to  a  certain  ortho- 
doxy which  satisfied  her  fat  kinsman, 
the  Abbe  Gondy,  who  regarded  her 
possessions  With  the  eyes  of  a  father 
and  a  devout  son  of  the  Holy  Church. 
The  lieutenant  could  recall  nothing 
of  her  features  ;  he  knew  nothing  of 
her  life  but  such  facts  as  were  told 
in  the  gossip  of  the  ramparts  and  the 
salon.  Nor  did  he  hold  it  possible 
that  she  would  offer  any  objection  to 
22 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

accompany  him  to  the  palace — there 
to  set  her  views  and  opinions  before 
his  Majesty.  Her  views  and  opin- 
ions !  What  a  play  it  was  !  And 
how  the  king  would  listen  to  the 
creed  of  such  a  piquant  disciple  ! 
What  a  task  the  conversion  would 
be.  He  began  even  to  wonder  who 
would  marry  her  when  the  royal  ears 
were  weary  of  her  platitudes,  and  the 
spell  of  debauchery  had  chilled  her 
zeal. 

With  such  thoughts  for  company, 
he  rode  on  in  silence.  They  had 
now  come  out  upon  park-like  land, 
where  great  oaks  cast  black  rings  of 
shade  ;  and  a  lake,  harbouring  many 
wild-fowl,  shone  like  a  mirror  of  sil- 
ver. There  was  a  great  wood,  black 
and  seemingly  impenetrable,  upon 
the  far  shore  of  the  lake,  and  when 
de  Guyon  observed  this,  he  drew 
rein  and  surveyed  his  environment. 

"Well,  rogue,"  said  he  to  Pepin, 
"  where  have  you  brought  us  now  ?" 

"  By  the  blood  of  John,  that's  what 
I  begin  to  ask  myself." 
23 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


De  Guyon  looked  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment with  withering  contempt  in  his 
glance. 

"  Unspeakable  fool,"  said  he,  "  I 
have  the  mind  to  box  your  ears  as 
the  priest  did." 

"  Aye,  that  would  be  something  ; 
but  look  you,  my  master,  a  boxed 
ear  will  never  make  a  full  belly  ;  and 
I  have  heard  it  said  that  patience  is 
the  father  of  plenty.  There's  fine 
ground  for  a  bivouac  here,  if  your 
Excellency  commands.  Lord,  that  I 
should  bring  you  to  bed  of  a  fast  !" 

He  sat  scratching  his  head  dole- 
fully while  the  weary  horses  began  to 
nibble  at  the  grass  and  the  men  to 
mutter  among  themselves.  Scarce, 
however,  had  de  Guyon  decided  that, 
full  or  fasting,'  he  could  go  no  fur- 
ther, when  the  silence  was  broken  of 
a  sudden  by  the  barking  of  dogs  ;  a 
very  babel  of  sound  arising  up,  as  it 
were,  from  the  heart  of  the  obstruct- 
ing wood.  Then  lights  appeared  be- 
tween the  trees,  and  the  voices  of 
men  were  heard. 

24 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  God  for  the  path 
that  I  have  followed  !"  said  Pepin, 
recovering  from  his  momentary  be- 
wilderment. "  Yonder,  my  master, 
is  the  Chateau  aux  Loups." 

"  It  lies  in  the  thicket,  then  ?" 

"  Aye,  as  close  surrounded  with 
trees  as  a  fine  woman  with  petticoats. 
You  could  no  more  come  up  to  it 
without  guide  than  fly  to  heaven  with 
half  a  paternoster.  Blessed  be  the 
holy  patron  that  hath  brought  me  !" 

But  de  Guyon  no  longer  paid  heed 
to  him. 

"  Wind  a  blast  on  the  horn,"  said 
he. 

The  sleeping  forest  echoed  the  mu- 
sic of  the  note,  and  the  little  troop 
rode  on. 


25 


CHAPTER   III. 

GABRIELLE    DE    VERNET. 

PEPIN  had  spoken  the  truth  about 
the  chateau.  It  lay  amongst  the 
trees  like  a  kernel  in  a  nut.  Many 
of  the  gigantic  oaks  which  girdled  it 
about  thrust  their  long  branches 
against  the  ramparts  that  looked 
down  upon  its  narrow  fosse.  A  man 
might  have  ridden  in  the  forest  for  a 
year,  and  have  known  nothing  of  the 
turreted,  castle-like  building  whereto 
Gabrielle  de  Vernet  had,  after  the 
death  of  the  Count,  withdrawn  to 
keep  herself  unspotted  from  the 
world.  Paul  de  Guyon,  halting  in 
parley  with  a  lackey  at  the  wood's 
edge,  could  espy  neither  path  nor 
gateway  ;  and  suffered  his  horse  to 
be  led  through  the  mazy  labyrinth  of 
26 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


tree  and  bush,  until  he  stood  at  last 
before  the  drawbridge  and  clattered 
into  the  ill-paved  courtyard. 

"  My  lady  is  at  her  devotions," 
said  the  man,  "  but  I  doubt  not  she 
will  see  your  Excellency  at  once. 
Meanwhile,  I  will  look  to  the  com- 
fort of  your  men." 

"  Ah,"  said  Pepin,  smacking  his 
lips,  "  an  honest  soup  with  lettuce 
and  leeks,  a  nice  piece  of  bouil!6,  a 
frangipani  and  some  green  peas  &  la 
bourgeoise. ' ' 

The  man  looked  at  him  with  amaze- 
ment. 

"It  is  the  eve  of  the  feast  of  St. 
Philip  and  St.  James,"  said  he  sim- 
ply, "  monsieur  will  not  wish  to 
break  the  fast." 

"  To  break  the  fast  !"  gasped  Pe- 
pin, "aye,  my  friend,  I  have  the 
mind  to  break  it  and  that  right  soon. 
But  I  was  ever  a  man  of  simple  tastes 
— a  well-boiled  capon  now  !" 

The  servant  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  turned  to  de  Guyon. 

"  If  only  we  had  known  of  your 
27 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


Excellency's  coming,"  said  he.  "  It 
was  otherwise  before  my  master  died. 
But  now — ah,  we  are  put  to  shame 
in  our  own  house  !" 

"  Suffer  no  shame  on  my  account, 
good  friend,"  said  de  Guyon,  "  I  am 
a  soldier  and  look  for  a  soldier's  fare. 
Your  mistress  is  at  her  devotions,  did 
you  say  ?" 

"  In  the  chapel  yonder,  mon- 
sieur  " 

"  Then  I  came  fortunately.  Pe- 
pin,  look  to  the  men  and  behave 
yourself.  I  am  going  to  say  my 
prayers." 

"  Ho,  ho,"  said  Pepin  to  himself, 
"  mon  maitre  goes  to  pray.  Surely 
the  stars  will  fall  !" 

The  chapel  was  upon  the  left  side 
of  the  courtyard,  a  quaint  Norman 
nook  with  fine  rounded  arches  and 
pilaster-like  buttresses,  which  had 
warred  with  the  centuries  and  won 
victories.  A  stream  of  light  was 
poured  through  its  open  but  richly 
carved  doorway,  and  the  narrow  win- 
dows were  so  many  pictures  of  saints 
28 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


and  angels  hung  up  upon  the  be- 
grimed walls.  De  Guyon,  standing 
in  the  porch,  observed  many  little 
shrines  with  candles  burning  before 
them,  and  he  could  hear  the  voice  of 
the  priest  soft  in  a  rippling  monotone 
of  prayer.  When  at  last  he  ventured 
to  enter,  and  to  kneel  at  the  bottom 
of  the  nave,  the  flicker  of  tapers  and 
the  long  shadows  they  cast  in  the 
ashes  and  upon  the  bare  stone  pave- 
ment, blinded  his  eyes  to  any  obser- 
vation of  the  few  worshippers  who 
knelt  before  the  high  altar.  But  the 
magnificent  ornaments  of  the  chapel 
made  themselves  plain  ;  and  he 
doubted  no  longer  those  rumours  of 
Gabrielle  de  Vernet's  wealth  which 
had  come  to  the  Court  and  had  made 
"the  little  Huguenot"  a  subject  for 
the  gossip  of  the  curious  and  of  the 
king.  None  but  a  very  rich  woman,  he 
said,  could  have  heaped  those  altars 
with  such  jewelled  crosses  and  such 
inlaid  candlesticks.  The  very  cruci- 
fix nailed  to  the  wall  above  the  pul- 
pit must  have  been  worth  the  salary 
29 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

of  an  almoner.  Soft  carpets,  unsur- 
passable carvings  of  wood,  pictures 
of  the  Christ  and  of  saints,  shrines 
whereon  diamonds  and  rubies  and 
precious  stones  caught  the  tapers' 
light,  and  adding  to  it  their  own  fires, 
scattered  dancing  rays  upon  the 
gloom,  were  evidences  of  an  ardent 
love  of  church — and  of  a  well-filled 
purse.  Whatever  might  have  been 
the  creed  of  the  girlish  mistress  of 
the  Chateau  aux  Loups,  and  there 
were  many  who  avowed  that  in  her 
heart  she  despised  the  Catholic  relig- 
ion, and  was  even  less  than  a  good 
Protestant,  she  yet  conformed  to 
the  outward  observance  of  the  old 
forms.  This  chapel  was  an  unan- 
swerable witness  to  her  generosity. 
It  remained  for  the  lieutenant  to 
learn  if  it  were  also  a  witness  to  her 
sincerity. 

To  de  Guyon,  steeped  in  the  un- 
ending niaiseries  of  the  Court,  with 
the  glare  of  masquerade  and  banquet 
still  in  his  eyes,  the  chill  and  gloom 
of  this  chapel  were  sobering.  As  he 
30 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


knelt  at  the  foot  of  a  great  pillar  and 
peered  into  the  darkness  of  the  chan- 
cel— for  the  tapers  before  the  taber- 
nacle were  unlighted — the  reality  of 
his  task  and  the  absurdity  of  it  forced 
themselves  upon  his  mind.  It  was 
the  king's  hope  to  lure  "  the  little 
Huguenot"  from  her  forest  fastness, 
and  to  make  sport  of  her  creed  ;  and 
— as  de  Guyon  did  not  doubt — of  her 
honour  at  the  palace.  A  debauched 
appetite  was  made  strong  again  in 
this  thought  of  so  dainty  a  dish.  If 
only  the  mistress  of  the  chateau  could 
be  tempted  by  intrigue  to  set  foot  in 
the  palace,  the  battle  was  won.  St. 
Anthony  himself  could  not  have  shut 
his  ears  to  the  apocalypse  of  license 
and  debauchery  of  which  the  king 
was  the  arch-priest.  What  mere  in- 
trigue could  not  accomplish,  the  wit 
of  madame  would  ensure.  This,  at 
least,  was  the  intention  of  those  who 
had  sent  the  young  lieutenant  of  the 
guard  to  the  work.  There  was  scarce 
a  finer  man  in  the  palace.  His  cour- 
age  and  good-nature  were  notorious. 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


And  he  could  play  a  part  like  Grand- 
val  himself.  Only  in  the  silence  of 
the  chapel  did  the  hazard  of  the  ven- 
ture occur  to  him.  How  would  he 
fare  if  "  the  little  Huguenot"  read 
his  purpose  ?  He  had  but  six  men 
with  him.  There  must  have  been  a 
hundred  who  would  rally  to  the  tocsin 
of  the  chateau.  The  fanatical  warn- 
ings of  the  priest  in  the  forest  were 
prophetical  of  the  common  spirit. 
He  might  be  cast  into  the  fosse  with- 
out, and  no  men  of  his  company  live 
to  tell  the  tale  of  his  coming.  The 
common  tongue  said  that  Gabrielle 
was  a  woman  of  fine  spirit.  But 
that  he  must  learn  for  himself. 

Until  this  time,  he  had  been  un- 
able from  his  place  of  observation  to 
see  anything  of  the  company  in  the 
chapel.  But  now,  when  the  priest 
had  ended  the  mournful  chanting, 
little  acolytes  in  scarlet  cassocks  and 
white  cottas  kindled  the  tapers  upon 
the  high  altar  and  also  those  in  a 
great  chandelier  beneath  the  rood- 
screen.  The  new  light  fell  upon  a 
32 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


reredos  of  marble  and  gold,  almost 
hidden  by  vases  of  white  flowers.  It 
fell,  too,  upon  the  face  of  an  old 
priest  gorgeously  robed  in  a  jewelled 
cope.  While  taper-bearers  and  thuri- 
fers  prostrated  themselves  before  the 
Host  in  the  monstrance,  and  a  hid- 
den choir  began  to  sing  very  sweetly 
the  Latin  hymn,  "  O  Salutaris  Ho- 
stia, "  de  Guyon  had  eyes  for  none 
of  these,  but  only  for  the  little  group 
of  worshippers  who  knelt  by  the 
chancel  gates.  Here  were  some 
twelve  men  and  women,  all  seem- 
ingly absorbed  in  their  devotions,  all 
dressed  very  soberly,  and  for  the 
most  part  in  plain  black.  There  was 
not  a  man  amongst  them  that  hid  his 
hair  in  a  wig  ;  not  a  woman  of  the 
company  that  seemed  to  know  of  the 
coiffure  &  boucles  badines,  au  berceau 
d'amour  or  au  mirliton.  Simplicity 
was  the  note  of  it  all,  and  de  Guyon, 
when  he  had  shaken  off  his  surprise, 
admitted  that  this  simplicity  was  in 
pretty  harmony  with  the  sombre  note 
of  the  chapel.  He  might  have  been 

33 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

watching  so  many  monks  and  nuns 
who  had  clothed  themselves  in  lay 
dress — but  timidly. 

In  the  centre  of  the  little  company, 
there  knelt  a  girl  whose  face  was  hid- 
den from  him,  but  whose  figure  and 
pose  were  infinitely  graceful.  He 
was  led  to  believe  by  the  position  she 
occupied  that  she  must  be  the  coun- 
tess, and  that  the  men  at  her  side 
were  the  poets  and  philosophers  who 
had  come  to  the  chateau  to  air  their 
graces  and  to  fill  their  stomachs. 
For  the  time  being  she  was  occupied 
entirely  with  her  devotions,  and  when 
she  raised  the  smallest  of  white  hands, 
it  was  to  bury  her  face  in  them  while 
she  prostrated  herself  before  the  up- 
raised Host,  Anon,  however,  the 
music  died  away  suddenly  ;  the  last 
cloud  of  incense  floated  to  the  vault- 
ed roof ;  the  acolytes  extinguished 
the  candles  before  the  altar,  and  the 
girl  rose  and  passed  down  the  chapel. 
De  Guyon  said  to  himself  that  the 
gossips  were  right.  If  a  Madonna 
had  come  out  of  one  of  the  pictures 
34 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


above  the  shrines,  and  had  stood  be- 
fore him,  lending  flesh  and  blood  to 
the  painter's  vision,  he  could  scarce 
have  been  more  surprised.  Such  a 
delicacy  of  form  and  feature  he  had 
hardly  seen  in  all  the  six  years  he 
had  been  at  Versailles  ;  had  never 
known  eyes  in  which  so  much  tender- 
ness and  emotion  seemed  to  lie.  He 
declared  that  her  mouth  was  like  a 
rosebud  upon  which  the  dew  has  just 
fallen.  She  held  herself  with  the 
grace  of  a  woman  grown  grey  in 
practising  the  courtesies  ;  yet  her 
limbs  had  the  roundness  and  supple- 
ness of  maturing  youth.  The  black 
robe,  falling  from  her  shoulders  pret- 
tily yet  without  panier,  and  set  off 
only  with  lace  at  her  neck  and  wrists, 
was  her  best  adornment.  She  wore 
no  jewels  ;  not  so  much  as  a  band 
of  gold  upon  her  arm.  Her  brown 
hair  was  simply  coiled  upon  her 
head.  De  Guyon  said  to  himself 
that  Legros,  with  all  his  art,  could 
not  have  added  to  the  effect  of  it. 
And  with  this  thought  he  left  the 
35 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

chapel  to  await  her  in  the  court- 
yard. 

Her  greeting  was  simple,  neither 
effusive  nor  lacking  welcome. 

"  I  have  heard  of  you,  Monsieur 
de  Guyon,  from  my  Cousin  Claude," 
said  she,  when  he  had  presented  his 
letters  to  her  ;  "  you  must  be  tired, 
indeed.  Let  us  think  of  supper  be- 
fore we  read  even  these  letters" — and 
so  turning  to  the  group  of  men  stand- 
ing behind  her,  she  added  simply — 

"  Gentlemen,  let  me  present  you 
Monsieur  de  Guyon,  a  lieutenant  of 
his  Majesty's  Guards.  He  has  rid- 
den far  to  serve  us,  and  we  must 
thank  him  by  hastening  to  supper." 

She  passed  on  with  a  graceful  in- 
clination of  her  head,  while  servants 
conducted  de  Guyon  to  a  room  in  the 
right  wing  of  the  chateau.  Ten  min- 
utes later  he  was  supping  in  the  hall. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE  KINGFISHER    AND    THE  CROWS. 

THE  lieutenant  of  the  guard  was  a 
man  to  please.  His  scarlet  coat 
slashed  with  gold,  his  fine  lace  and 
buckles,  his  gorgeous  sword-belt, 
showed  all  the  points  of  his  lusty  fig- 
ure in  their  perfection.  There  was 
dormant  intellect  marked  in  his  eyes, 
good  temper  in  the  well-balanced  fea- 
tures of  his  face,  which  always  wore 
a  self-satisfied  smile.  Two  studies 
alone  occupied  him  at  Versailles  or 
Paris — the  study  of  showy  wit  and  of 
showy  women.  Seated  by  Gabrielle 
de  Vernet's  side  in  the  hall  of  the 
chateau  he  was  like  a  kingfisher 
among  crows.  A  sense  of  superiority 
gave  him  confidence.  He  said  to 
himself  that  it  would  be  easy  to  shine 
in  such  a  company. 

37 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


The  long  table,  lighted  by  heavy 
silver  candelabra,  was  arranged  in 
the  form  of  a  horse-shoe.  The  crows, 
broken  down  wits  and  poets,  display- 
ing a  ripe  eagerness  for  the  repast, 
were  at  the  lower  end  of  the  hall. 
A  heavy-browed  priest,  with  hanging 
cheeks  and  a  purple  cassock,  sat  upon 
the  left  hand  of  the  hostess.  There 
was  armour  in  abundance  upon  the 
walls  of  the  panelled  apartment  ; 
and  a  choir  in  a  gallery  at  the  far  end 
sang  a  Latin  grace  very  prettily. 
And  that  done  with,  the  lackeys 
busied  themselves  and  the  crows  be- 
gan to  peck. 

Until  this  moment,  de  Guyon  had 
not  exchanged  two  words  with^  the 
girl  upon  his  left  hand,  but  the  mo- 
ment that  hot  soup  was  placed  before 
him,  he  began  to  rack  his  brain  for 
some  pleasantry  that  should  please. 
He  had  contrived  to  turn  a  pretty 
compliment,  and  was  beginning  to 
blurt  it  out,  when  to  his  great  annoy- 
ance, she  raised  her  finger,  and  whis- 
pered to  him — 

38 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  We  have  yet  to  read  the  Gospel 
of  the  day." 

De  Guyon  checked  the  words  upon 
his  lips,  and  turned  to  his  dinner. 
Notwithstanding  the  pious  hopes  of 
the  serving  man  that  Pepin  would 
not  break  his  fast,  there  was  meat  set 
before  the  young  lieutenant  ;  and 
the  crows,  who  were  busy  with  dishes 
of  carp  and  other  unsavoury  fish, 
turned  greedy  eyes  upon  his  plate. 
Some  fine  old  Burgundy  helped  him 
to  wash  down  the  repast,  but  the 
others,  save  the  priest,  drank  a  thin 
white  wine,  and  their  mouths  shrank 
every  time  they  raised  their  tumblers. 
Nor  did  one  of  them  venture  to  open 
his  lips,  but  sat  with  eyes  cast  down 
and  unresting  jaws,  while  a  young 
man,  who  wore  a  cassock  and  bands, 
read  the  Gospel  of  the  day,  and  after- 
wards a  sermon  by  Massillon,  of 
which  the  note  was  the  ardent  de- 
nunciation of  all  profligates.  Then 
only  was  the  floodgate  of  talk  open- 
ed ;  then  only  did  the  crows  begin  to 
caw. 

39 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Well,  Monsieur  de  Guyon,  and 
what  news  have  you  to  tell  me  of 
Paris?" 

The  girl  at  the  head  of  the  table 
turned  a  pair  of  searching  eyes  upon 
him.  Her  face  wore  the  suspicion  of 
a  smile.  He  felt  that  she  was  look- 
ing him  through  and  through.  And 
he  returned  her  glance,  putting  on 
the  air  of  a  man  who  could  not  by 
any  possibility  conceal  anything. 

"  Indeed,  madame,"  said  he,"  I  left 
the  Barriere  d'Enfer  yesterday  at 
daybreak.  We  count  nothing  news 
in  Paris  that  is  forty  hours  old.  And 
it  is  a  week  since  I  have  seen  Madame 
de  Boufflers." 

"  Who  is  better  versed  in  the  small 
talk  of  the  day  than  any  other  lady  in 
Paris.  What  a  misfortune  for  you." 

"  It  is  no  misfortune  which  brings 
me  to  the  Chateau  aux  Loups." 

She  paid  no  heed  to  the  compli- 
ment, resting  her  chin  upon  the  back 
of  an  exceedingly  white  hand. 

"  But   the   people   of   the   chateau 
amuse  you  very  much  ?"  she  asked. 
40 


"The  Little  Huguen 

"  We  are  never  amused  by  that 
which  we  esteem." 

She  became  thoughtful  for  a  min- 
ute, continuing  to  keep  her  eyes  upon 
him  ;  but  before  she  spoke  again,  the 
purple-robed  priest  upon  her  left 
hand  turned  from  his  meat  for  the 
first  time. 

"  Present  me  to  monsieur,"  said 
he. 

"  My  kinsman,  the   Abbe  Go. 
said  she  simply. 

"  Your  visit  is  very  welcome  to  us, 
monsieur,"  said  the  Abbe,  bowing  ; 
"  though  we  are  not  of  the  world,  we 
are  yet  weak  enough  to  wish  to  know 
what  the  world  does.  What  says 
Paris  now  of  the  death  of  Madame 
Doublet  de  Persan.  Ah,  the  great 
folk  I  have  met  in  her  house — St. 
Palaze  —  Mairan,  Devaur,  Perrin  ! 
What  a  salon  it  was  !  I  shall  never 
forget  her  banquets." 

The  Abbe  looked  regretfully  at  the 
relics  of  the  fish  before  him,  and 
helped  his  memory  with  a  deep  sigh, 
and  a  second  glass  of  the  rich  red 

41 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


Burgundy.  But  de  Guyon,  glad  to 
be  set  going,  answered  him  apace — 

"  The  loss  of  Madame  Doublet  de 
Persan  is  irretrievable,"  said  he  : 
"  we  shall  not  see  her  like  again  in 
Paris.  Madame  Geoffrin  is  old  ;  Ma- 
dame du  Deffand  grows  tiresome. 
You  have  heard,  monsieur,  that  her 
Majesty  of  Russia  is  anxious  to  carry 
.the  fashion  of  the  city  to  the  bour- 
geoisie of  St.  Petersburg.  Madame 
Geoffrin  has  refused  her  twice.  Ma- 
dame du  Deffand  declines  to  be  the  in- 
strument. Society,  she  says,  is  made 
up  of  persons  incapable  of  knowledge, 
thought,  and  feeling.  They  have 
enough  of  those  in  Muscovy  already." 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Abbe",  with  an 
unecclesiasticaj  laugh,  "  and  that  is 
true.  If  all  one  hears  of  her  Majesty 
is  well  said,  she  has  as  many  affairs 
as  a  grisette  of  Bordeaux.  But  I 
never  listen  to  such  tales  myself. 
Charity,  monsieur,  is  a  great  virtue. 
Let  us  cultivate  it  always." 

He  smacked  his  lips  over  the  wine, 
and  Gabrielle  de  Vernet  spoke  again. 
42 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  You  are  riding  to  the  palace  at 
Fontainebleau,  monsieur?"  she  asked 
de  Guyon. 

He  was  ready  with  his  answer. 

"  I  am  riding  to  the  palace  when  it 
is  madame's  pleasure  to  ride  with  me." 

"My  pleasure?  Oh,  my  dear  Mon- 
sieur de  Guyon,  what  should  I  do  at 
Fontainebleau  ?" 

"  Then  you  have  not  read  of  his 
Majesty's  invitation,  madame  ?" 

"  Certainly,  I  have  not.  I  do  not 
love  letters." 

He  looked  at  her  incredulously. 

"  But  a  command  from  the  king  ; 
that  is  different." 

"  Not  at  all — it  is  the  same  thing  ; 
an  expression  of  wishes  one  does  not 
feel  for  a  person  in  whom  one  has  no 
interest.  His  Majesty's  letter  may 
wait  the  morning.  I  am  in  no  hurry, 
and  I  am  sure  that  he  is  not." 

"  And  the  note  from  your  Cousin 
Claude?" 

"  Oh,  my  Cousin  Claude  writes  al- 
ways of  himself — the  subject  in  which 
he  is  most  concerned." 

43 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


De  Guyon  bit  his  lip.  The  woman 
was  either  a*  delightful  actress,  or  a 
pretty  simpleton  gone  crazy  in  the 
practice  of  a  discredited  creed. 

"  We  have  need  of  example  at  the 
Court,  madame, "  said  he.  "  You 
have  heard  the  saying  of  the  Abbe 
Cozer  :  '  In  order  to  be  something,  a 
great  part  of  the  nobility  is  plunged 
into  nothingness.'' 

"  And  you  think  that  I  should  be 
an  example  ?" 

"  His  Majesty  is  sure  of  it." 

"  But — you  yourself  ?" 

"  I  am  of  the  king's  opinion,  as  a 
soldier  should  ever  be." 

To  his  surprise  she  now  laughed 
lightly. 

"  Should  I  have  you  for  a  pupil  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  One  of  the  most  faithful." 

"  And  you  would  walk  with  me  in 
the  park  if  I  wore  no  other  gown 
than  this?" 

"  I  would  look  for  no  greater  hon- 
our. The  best  ornament  of  beauty 
is  simplicity,  madame." 

44 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  As  the  best  weapon  of  intrigue  is 
truth,  monsieur." 

Her  mood  passed  for  a  moment  to 
severity.  Her  lips  were  pursed  up, 
her  eyes  searched  him  curiously.  It 
was  only  for  a  moment,  however. 
Presently  she  began  to  laugh  again, 
and  she  murmured,  as  if  to  herself, 
some  doggerel  in  which  a  wag  had 
caricatured  the  fashionable  coiffure 
of  the  hour — 

"  Soutiens,  Jasmin,  je  succombe, 
Et  prends  bien  garde,  faquin 
Qui  si  ma  coiffure  tombe 
Tu  auras  ton  compte  demain." 

"They  tell  me,"  said  she,  "that 
women  now  wear  their  hair  a  foot 
high." 

"  To  conceal  the  smallness  of  their 
heads,  believe  me,  madame." 

"  What  an  excellent  reason." 

"  Which,  in  your  case,  I  venture  to 
think  would  be  no  reason  at  all." 

"A   hit,    a   hit!"    chimed    in   the 

Abbe,  who  had  been  busy  with  the 

wine-bottle.     "  They  do  say  that  the 

women  at  the  Court  nowadays  carry 

45 


The  Little  Huguenot" 


much  virtue  on  their  skulls  and  little 
in  their  breasts.  But,  for  myself,  I 
pay  no  heed  to  these  scandals.  The 
tongue  of  the  world  is  very  wicked, 
Monsieur  de  Guyon." 

"It  is  often  very  amusing,"  said 
de  Guyon. 

"  And  the  more  amusing  because 
the  less  true,"  said  madame. 

"  Exactly  ;  truth  is  a  very  ordinary 
faculty  to  cultivate." 

"  And,  therefore,  you  let  it  lie  fal- 
low." 

De  Guyon  bit  his  lip  again.  In  all 
their  talk  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
slim  and  graceful  girl  in  the  black 
robe  was  laughing  at  him.  Accus- 
tomed to  mould  women  to  his  mood, 
to  bend  them' before  the  graces  which 
it  was  the  business  of  his  life  to  culti- 
vate, he  knew  not  how  to  meet  an 
antagonist  against  whom  flattery  was 
no  weapon,  and  wit  no  defence.  Nor 
was  he  willing  to  admit  that  he  had 
cut  a  poor  figure. 

"I    am    tired    to-night,"    he    said, 

"  but  to-morrow " 

46 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

The  supper  being  now  done,  the 
countess  rose  from  the  table  and  led 
the  way  into  a  little  boudoir,  not  in- 
elegantly furnished,  and  betraying 
nothing  of  that  ascetic  rigour  else- 
where to  be  observed. 

"  We  will  talk  of  all  these  things 
in  the  morning,  when  you  ride  with 
me,  monsieur,"  said  she.  "  To-night 
we  must  amuse  you." 

He  could  not  find  it  on  his  tongue 
to  tell  her  that  already  she  amused 
him — nay,  fascinated  him  beyond  any 
woman  he  had  known.  The  vigour 
and  freshness  of  her  mind  were  al- 
ready conquering  him.  He  felt  like 
a  boy  that  had  been  beaten  when  he 
sat  at  her  side  to  listen  to  the  harpist, 
and  to  the  ballads  of  one  of  the  crows, 
delivered  with  a  nasal  drawl  and  a 
precision  which  were  ludicrous.  And 
when  at  last  she  bade  him  good- 
night, and  he  went  up  to  the  great 
oak-panelled  bedchamber,  he  carried 
with  him  the  memory  of  a  sweet  girl- 
ish face,  of  a  woman's  eyes  that 
seemed  to  read  his  whole  soul,  of  a 

47 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

voice  which  was  soft  and  pleasing  as 
the  clear  note  of  a  bell. 

From  the  window  of  his  bedcham- 
ber he  could  look  out  upon  a  great 
sweep  of  the  forest,  flooded  with  the 
moonbeams.  The  scene — rich  in  soft 
lights,  in  tremulous  whisperings  and 
suggestions  of  sleep — fell  in  with  his 
mood.  From  the  inner  court  of  the 
chateau  he  could  hear  snatches  of 
song  floating  upon  the  stillness  of  the 
night ;  the  harsh  voice  of  the  rogue 
Pepin,  the  deep,  baying  laugh  of  the 
musketeers,  spoke  of  the  passing  of 
the  wine-cup  and  of  the  camp  jest. 
But  the  woodlands  slept,  and  the  rare 
cries  of  beasts  o,r  notes  of  birds  were 
like  challenges  of  sentinels  that 
guarded  the  moon-lit  ramparts. 

The  spell  of  it  all  was  irresistible, 
dream-bearing.  Long  de  Guyon  sat 
at  his  open  window,  busy  with  his 
thoughts.  And  this  thought  was 
above  all  others  :  that  the  mistress 
of  the  chateau  must  not  go  to  the 
palace,  though  her  absence  cost  him 
his  command. 

48 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE    ABBE    GONDY    COUNTS    HIS  SPOONS. 

THE  Abbe  Gondy  descended  from 
the  grassy  hill  upon  which  he  had 
watched  de  Guyon  and  Gabrielle  de 
Vernet  set  out  to  the  hunt  ;  and  so 
soon  as  the  last  of  the  horsemen  had 
disappeared  into  the  thick  wood 
which  lay  upon  the  borders  of  the 
home  park,  he  returned  with  slow 
steps  to  the  chateau.  For  the  first 
time  for  some  years  the  Abbe  was 
thinking.  His  ponderous  mind 
creaked  on  its  hinges  :  he  had  a  prob- 
lem to  solve,  and  he  admitted  that  he 
could  make  nothing  of  it. 

At  the  door  of  the  stables  he  found 
the  rogue  Pepin,  basking  in  the  glori- 
ous sunshine. 

"  Good  morning,  my  friend,"  said 
the  Abbe,  suddenly  conceiving  a  no- 

49 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


tion  ;  "so  you  have  deserted  your 
master  ?" 

"Aye,  and  that's  God's  truth,  fa- 
ther— for  who  would  shake  his  body 
on  a  horse  when  he  can  lie  back  down 
in  the  blessed  sunlight  ?  Blood  of 
Paul  !  I  have  no  stomach  for  boar's 
meat  when  I  must  do  the  catching." 

"  You  are  a  philosopher,  my  son." 

"If  so  be  that  your  philosopher 
waits  while  other  men  work,  I  am 
that  same  person." 

The  Abbe  smiled. 

"  I  like  your  teaching,  friend,"  said 
he. 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  faithful  pupil  of  Holy 
Church,  my  father." 

"  Would  that' we  had  more  of  them 
in  these  evil  times,"  said  the  Abbe, 
raising  his  eyes  solemnly  to  heaven, 
but  instantly  casting  them  down 
again. 

"  You  have  breakfasted,  my  son  ?" 
he  asked,  a  moment  later. 

"  In  the  matter  of  a  snack  I  have 
done  fairly  well,  monsieur ;  but 
should  you  be  led  to  inquire  if  my 
50 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


girths  are  drawn  tight,  so  to  speak,  I 
would  even  answer  you,  nay  !" 

The  Abbe's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  Yesterday  was  a  fast,"  said  he  ; 
"  to-day  is  a  feast.  You  shall  drink 
a  cup  of  wine  at  my  own  board." 

Pepin  was  on  his  legs  in  a  moment. 
Five  minutes  later  the  same  legs 
were  dangling  beneath  the  Abbe's 
groaning  table. 

"  God  send  a  saint  every  day  of  the 
year  !"  said  Pepin,  filling  his  mouth 
with  slices  from  the  breast  of  a  well- 
boiled  capon. 

"  Amen  to  that  !"  cried  the  Abbe, 
drinking  a  glass  of  luscious  red  wine. 

"  And  a  fat  capon  for  sinners  to 
fast  upon." 

"  Let  me  fill  your  glass,"  said  the 
Abbe,  with  oily  condescension. 

"  You  are  too  good,  my  father." 

"  I  am  the  servant  of  the  servants 
of  God,"  murmured  the  Abbe,  while 
his  hand  which  held  the  decanter 
shook  beyond  concealment.  "  You 
have  been  with  Monsieur  de  Guyon 
long,  my  friend  ?" 
51 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  I  was  with  his  father  at  Minden, 
monsieur.  Dieu  !  I  had  three  at  once 
upon  my  sword  !" 

Pepin  lied  very  discreetly.  The 
truth  was  that  de  Guyon  had  picked 
him  up  the  previous  day  at  the  Bar- 
riere  d'Enfer,  but  the  memory  of 
Minden  allowed  him  to  pose  as  an 
old  family  retainer.  The  Abb6,  how- 
ever, knew  nothing  of  this,  and,  as- 
suming that  he  was  talking  to  a  con- 
fidential servant,  he  opened  his  heart 
freely. 

"  You  are  accompanying  your  mas- 
ter to  the  palace  ?" 

Pepin  had  not  the  faintest  notion 
whither  de  Guyon  was  carrying  him, 
so  he  said,  and  there  were  tears  in 
his  eyes. 

"  I  follow  him  to  the  world's  end, 
men  p^re. ' ' 

"  You  know  why  he  has  come 
here?" 

Pepin  did  not  know,   but  he  was 
far  too  wise  to  betray  his  ignorance. 
With    his    tongue   in   his   cheek,    he 
made  a  grimace  at  the  Abbe. 
52 


"The  Little  Huguenot" 


"Ah,"  said  the  priest,  with  a  sly 
laugh,  "  you  are  a  cunning  fellow." 

"  I  am  as  God  made  me,  holy 
father." 

"  I  always  said,"  continued  the 
Abbe,  as  if  to  himself,  "  that  madame 
woujd  hear  of  us." 

"  It's  known  in  all  Paris,"  said 
Pepin,  clutching  at  a  straw. 

The  Abbe  appeared  not  to  notice 
the  remark. 

"  Your  master  has  many  friends  at 
Court  ?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  Their  names  would  fill  a  book," 
said  Pepin. 

"  And  he  has  come  straight  to  us 
from  the  king  ?" 

"  From  the  king  !"  cried  Pepin,  ob- 
serving on  a  sudden  the  opportunity 
to  appear  knowing ;  "  ha,  ha,  that's  a 
fine  story.  From  the  king  !  What  an 
idea  !" 

The  Abb6  looked  at  him  search- 
ingly. 

"  Fill  your  glass,"  said  he. 

Pepin  did  so. 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  the  name  of 
53 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

the  person  whose  messenger  your 
master  is,  I  will  give  you  ten  gold 
pieces,"  said  the  Abbe*. 

"  Ten  gold  pieces,"  murmured 
Pepin,  making  another  grimace  ; 
"  oh,  but  I  am  a  faithful  servant, 
monsieur." 

"Then  twenty  pieces,"  urged  the 
Abbe. 

He  counted  the  money  out  upon 
the  table — but  covered  it  with  his 
hand. 

"  One  moment,  my  friend,"  said 
he  ;  "  when  did  your  master  last  have 
audience  of  his  Majesty  ?" 

"  Audience  of  his  Majesty  !  Ha, 
ha,  you  joke,  Monsieur  1'Abbe  !" 

The  priest  began  to  put  the  money 
into  the  bag  again. 

"  We  do  not  understand  each  other 
yet,"  said  he. 

"Nay,"  said  Pepin,  "we  under- 
stand each  other  perfectly.  My  mas- 
ter last  had  audience  of  his  Majesty 
nine  months  ago,  when  he  was  sub- 
lieutenant at  the  Louvre." 

"You  lie,"  said  the  Abbe  coolly, 
54 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


replacing  all  the  money  in  the  bag  ; 
"  nine  months  ago  your  master  was 
in  Corsica.  And  he  spoke  with  the 
king  at  Versailles  five  days  ago." 

"  Ah  !  what  tricks  my  memory 
plays  with  me,"  said  Pepin,  taken 
unawares  ;  "  but  about  those  ten 
pieces,  monsieur?" 

"  You  see  how  well  they  go  in  this 
bag,"  remarked  the  Abbe,  at  the 
same  time  withdrawing  the  decanter 
from  the  other's  reach  ;  "  we  will 
talk  of  them  again,  my  son,  when 
your  memory  is  in  no  mood  for  tricks. 
Meanwhile,  I  have  to  say  my  office." 

Pepin  scratched  his  head.  He  saw 
that  he  had  made  a  mess  of  things. 

"  Parbleu!  that  was  a  good  break- 
fast," cried  he — but  the  Abbe  already 
had  his  breviary  in  his  hand. 

"  Bon  jour,  monsieur  !"  said  Pepin, 
lurching  out. 

"  Impostor  !"  murmured  the  Abbe, 
kneeling  at  his  faldstool. 

"  What  Burgundy  !"  exclaimed 
Pepin,  staggering  to  the  stables  to 
sleep. 

55 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


The  Abbe's  devotions  were  inter- 
spersed with  strange  thoughts  that 
morning.  His  eyes  would  wander 
from  the  pages  of  his  breviary  ;  his 
busy  brain  employed  itself  with  any- 
thing but  worship.  The  coming  of 
de  Guyon  had  upset  him  strangely. 
It  had  even  suggested  to  him  the  pos- 
sibility that  Gabrielle  de  Vernet 
might  marry  again.  And  how  would 
he  fare  with  a  master  at  the  chateau  ? 
He  said  to  himself  that  he  might 
fare  badly  ;  might  in  an  extreme 
case  be  driven  out  to  some  mean  care 
of  souls  in  some  mean  hamlet.  "Far 
better,"  whispered  the  devil  in  his  ear, 
"  that  she  should  go  to  Versailles,  and 
leave  you  in  possession  of  the  Chateau 
aux  Loups.  She  may  become  as  the 
others,  but  you,  at  any  rate,  have 
tried  to  keep  her  to  the  faith.  And 
she  is  a  pure  woman." 

"  Vade  retro  Sa  tanas,"  murmured 
the  Abbe  piously  ;  and  then  he  fell 
to  reading  the  words: — "Brethren, 
be  sober  and  watch." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IN    THE    BOWER    OF    VIOLETS. 

GABRIELLE  DE  VERNET  was  a  per- 
fect horsewoman.  De  Guyon  said  to 
himself  twenty  times  as  he  rode  with 
her  on  the  morning  after  his  coming 
to  the  chateau  that  she  would  surely 
break  her  neck.  Somehow,  he  found 
that  he  was  more  anxious  for  her 
safety  than  for  his  own.  She  looked 
so  girlish  with  her  golden-brown  hair 
coiled  loosely  on  her  neck,  and  her 
tiny  hands  controlling  a  great  horse 
that  might  have  carried  a  command- 
er. And  no  difficulty  of  the  road 
was  too  great  for  her  nerve  or  her 
daring.  He  shuddered  again  and 
again  when  she  rode  blindly  through 
the  labyrinthine  way  of  copse  thicket, 
or  galloped  wildly  where  the  sward 
was  soft  and  the  way  was  open. 
57 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


There  were  moments  when  he  said 
that  she  must  certainly  be  killed. 
And  he  himself  was  no  mountebank 
in  the  saddle. 

Even  to  a  man  accustomed  to  the 
gaudy  pictures  of  life  at  Court,  the 
scene  was  no  unworthy  one.  The 
green  coats  and  feathered  hats  of  the 
woodlanders,  the  changing  beauties 
of  the  forest  ;  the  baying  of  the 
hounds,  the  winding  blast  of  horns, 
the  thud  of  hoofs  upon  the  rich  green 
turf  braced  his  mind  to  exhilara- 
tion in  the  sport.  And  when  to  this 
there  was  added  that  fascination 
which  the  company  of  Gabrielle  de 
Vernet  already  cast  upon  him,  his 
heart  went  out  to  the  spirit  of  the 
morning,  and  all  the  burning  fevers 
of  intrigue  and  ambition  and  de- 
bauchery seemed  to  leave  him. 

At  the  first  she  had  ridden  with  the 
others,  with  a  fearlessness  which 
many  a  man  might  have  envied.  But 
when  they  had  galloped  some  miles 
almost  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  for- 
est, it  appeared  to  de  Guyon  that  she 
53 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

was  drawing  away  from  the  chase, 
and  seeking  to  plunge  into  the 
darker  places  of  the  woods.  The 
note  of  the  horns  died  down  in  the 
distance  ;  the  voice  of  the  hounds 
were  faint  echoes  in  the  hollows  ; 
and  still  she  rode  on  through  groves 
of  close  set  pines  and  tangles  of 
bramble  ;  over  swards  carpeted  with 
violets  and  meadows  of  soft  sand  ;  by 
dark  pools  and  bubbling  brooks. 
When  at  last  she  drew  rein  it  was  at 
a  thicket's  edge  in  a  grass  glade  odor- 
ous with  the  perfume  of  sweet  flow- 
ers ;  there  one  of  her  own  serving 
men  came  out  to  greet  her. 

"  Our  ride  is  over,  Monsieur  de 
Guyon,"  said  she,  jumping  lightly 
from  her  horse,  "  and  here  we  should 
find  our  breakfast.  Did  you  think 
that  I  was  going  to  lose  you  in  the 
forest?" 

She  was  blushing  deeply  ;  but  it 
was  with  the  blush  of  a  young  girl's 
health.  It  seemed  to  de  Guyon  that 
she  had  left  at  the  chateau  that 
stately  dignity  of  speech  and  bearing 

59 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


which  he  had  remarked  at  their  first 
meeting.  Nor  did  he  know  in  which 
mood  he  found  her  the  more  charm- 
ing. While  he  had  thought  over- 
night that  there  was  no  woman  at 
Versailles  to  be  compared  to  her  as 
the  graceful  mistress  of  a  household, 
he  now  said  that  this  girlish  freedom 
was  unsurpassable  in  its  charm  and 
attractiveness.  And  her  riding-dress 
showed  her  pretty  figure  to  exceeding 
advantage  ;  the  quaint  round  hat  in 
which  she  had  gone  to  the  hunt  gave 
piquancy  to  the  freshness  of  her 
young  face.  He  said  to  himself  that 
the  wonder  was,  not  that  the  king 
now  desired  to  see  her,  but  that  she 
had  not  been  lured  to  the  palace  long 
ago.  Yet  he  trembled  at  the  thought 
of  her  being  there  ;  found  himself  in 
some  way  posing  mentally  as  her 
protector  from  ills  which  it  seemed  a 
crime  to  think  upon. 

The  nook   in  which  they  were  to 

breakfast  was  the  one  she  called  her 

bower.      In   part  it  was  of  nature's 

making  ;  in  part  the  work  of  her  own 

60 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


gardeners,  who  had  trained  honey- 
suckle about  the  little  \vooden  pavil- 
ion and  had  almost  smothered  it  in 
roses.  Here,  in  the  depths  of  the 
glen,  a  clear  pool  of  water  caught  the 
sun's  rays  streaming  through  a  can- 
opy of  boughs  and  branches,  and 
showed  gold  and  silver  fish  basking 
in  the  warmth,  or  feeding  on  the  ripe 
green  weeds  which  flourished  on  the 
pebbly  bed.  A  little  balcony,  pleas- 
antly  shaded  by  a  roof  of  flowering 
creeper,  was  built  over  the  pond,  and 
the  breakfast  to  which  de  Guyon  had 
been  invited  was  spread  out  upon  a 
little  wooden  table  on  this  balcony. 
He  saw  at  once  that  only  two  chairs 
were  set  ;  and  for  a  moment  he  had 
hopes  of  this  discovery.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  Gabrielle  de  Vernet  was 
going  to  make  love  to  him  ? 

This  pleasing  speculation  was  soon 
at  rest.  Directly  the  girl  began  to 
speak  to  him  he  knew  that  no  such 
thoughts  were  in  her  mind.  The 
pretty  speech  he  had  framed  died 
away  upon  his  lips.  He  began  men- 
61 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


tally  to  pay  her  a  new  homage.  She 
was  so  different  from  any  woman  he 
had  known.  He  felt  like  a  child  be- 
fore a  mistress — and  yet  he  was  drawn 
towards  her  as  towards  one  whom  all 
the  world  must  love.  He  said  that 
it  would  be  heaven  itself  to  hold  her 
in  his  arms  ;  then  remembered  that 
he  had  come  to  her  that  he  might 
carry  her  to  the  shame  of  the  Court. 
It  was  a  pitiful  errand,  indeed  ;  it 
seemed  the  more  pitiful  when  she  be- 
gan to  speak  of  it  fearlessly. 

"  You  are  wondering  why  I  left 
the  hunt  and  brought  you  to  my 
bower  ?"  she  asked  while  she  heaped 
her  plate  with  fresh  fruit,  and  the 
servant  filled  their  glasses  with  a 
pleasing  yellow  wine. 

4 '  Parbleu  !  since  your  bower  is  so 
pleasant  a  place,  why  should  I  ask 
any  such  question  ?" 

"  It  would  be  very  natural  if  you 
had  done  so,"  said  she,  unmindful  of 
the  compliment,  "  and  I  don't  know 
that  I  am  not  treating  you  very  ill. 
But  I  promised  myself  that  I  would 
62 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

talk  of  your  message  this  morning — - 
and  my  curiosity  is  your  punishment. 
I  have  now  read  my  cousin  Claude's 
letter,  in  which  he  conveys  to  me  the 
king's  earnest  wish  that  I  should 
present  myself  at  Versailles.  You,  I 
understand,  are  sent  to  emphasise 
that  wish." 

It  was  a  very  direct  question,  and 
he  saw  no  way  by  which  he  might 
evade  it. 

"  Certainly,  that  is  so,"  he  stam- 
mered at  last.  "  His  Majesty's  wish 
is  to  be  read  as  a  command  in  a  mat- 
ter like  this.  I  will  tell  you  frankly 
that  I  am  sent  to  escort  you  to  the 
palace,  where  the  king  would  be  glad 
to  consult  you  upon  many  subjects 
connected  with — with " 

"  With  what,  Monsieur  de  Guyon  ? 
Really  you  provoke  my  curiosity 
again." 

He  felt  that  she  was  laughing  at 
him,  and  in  his  embarrassment  his 
tongue  failed  him. 

"Oh,1'  she  said,  continuing  in  a 
spirit  of  raillery,  "  you  are  a  very  bad 
63 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


ambassador,  Monsieur  de  Guyon.  I 
shall  really  have  to  help  you  myself." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  speak  truth. 
I  am  a  soldier,  madame,  and  my 
principal  occupation  is  to  obey." 

"  Even  when  obedience  concerns  a 
woman's  honour?" 

He  had  no  answer  to  give  to  her — 
his  mind  was  bent  like  a  whip  in  her 
hands. 

"  Yes,  my  friend,"  she  continued, 
sparing  him  in  nothing,  "  I  can  scarce 
think  that  you  have  lived  under  the 
king's  roof  for  five  years  without 
knowing  well  what  his  Majesty's  gra- 
cious wish  implies.  You  ask  me  if  I 
will  go  to  the  palace  ?  I  answer  you 
by  another  question — does  the  .dove 
go  willingly  to  the  cage,  the  deer  to 
the  stable  ?  Does  the  man  who  has 
breathed  God's  air  upon  the  hills 
sleep  at  his  ease  in  a  cellar  ?  Here, 
with  the  children  who  love  me,  with 
the  forest  for  my  home,  with  the 
worship  of  God  in  Jesus  Christ  for 
my  occupation,  I  find  life  rich  in 
treasure,  as  she  is  always  rich  to  those 
64 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

that  deal  well  with  her.  Think  you 
that  I  would  surrender  these  my 
pleasures  at  the  nod  of  any  king — 
even  at  the  nod  of  the  well-beloved  ? 
Oh,  Monsieur  de  Guyon,  you  know 
that  I  would  not." 

She  had  spoken  quickly,  the  effort 
suffusing  her  face  with  a  glow  of 
pink  ;  her  eyes  bright  with  earnest- 
ness of  purpose.  De  Guyon,  accus- 
tomed to  the  restraint  of  the  women 
of  the  Court,  to  the  practice  of  ver- 
bal insincerities,  listened  to  her  with 
amazement.  Here  was  a  woman 
who  believed  in  Christ — yet  a  woman 
with  warm  blood  in  her  veins  ;  no 
recluse  of  the  cell,  but  a  living,  breath- 
ing entity,  to  listen  to  whom  was  to 
hear  a  voice  as  from  another  world. 
Her  very  frankness  gave  him  cour- 
age ;  all  the  fine  phrases  with  which 
he  had  hoped  to  ensnare  had  long 
passed  from  his  mind.  He  an- 
swered her  in  plain  words  as  she 
wished. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  "it  is  ill  to 
put  upon  the  servant  the  designs  of 
65 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


the  master.  I  am  the  servant  of 
King  Louis.  If  he  says  go,  I  go  ;  or 
stay,  and  I  stay.  How  then  would 
you  make  me  your  adviser  ?  Indeed, 
this  visit  is  none  of  my  planning.  I 
knew  not  of  it  until  the  hour  in  which 
I  was  bidden  to  set  out.  It  is  only 
when  you  speak  to  me  like  this  that  I 
am  able  to  answer  frankly.  As  a 
soldier,  I  say  to  you,  come  with  me 
to  the  palace  ;  as  a  friend,  I  urge 
you  to  remain  at  your  chateau  as  long 
as  the  king  will  permit." 

"  As  long  as  the  king  will  permit  ! 
Then  he  adds  threats  to  the  expres- 
sion of  his  pleasure  ?" 

"  His  Majesty  does  not  love  to  be 
contradicted,  madame." 

"  Nay,  but  you  shall  contradict 
him  for  me  ;  you  shall  return  this 
very  night  with  my  message.  If  I 
am  to  go  to  Versailles " 

"  To  Fontainebleau.  His  Majesty 
will  be  there  on  Sunday  next  to  re- 
ceive you." 

"  Oh,  his  Majesty  is  very  thought- 
ful. See,  my  dear  Monsieur  de 
66 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


Guyon,  how  he  would  shield  me 
from  prying  eyes." 

"  He  judged  that  the  journey 
would  be  less  fatiguing  ;  you  are  but 
five  leagues  from  the  palace  of  Fran- 
cis, are  you  not  ?" 

"  Six  exactly,  mon  ami — yet  far 
enough  to  prove  a  heavy  burden 
when  his  Majesty  comes  to  carry 
me." 

"  To  carry  you  !" 

"  I  will  go  no  other  way.  He  shall 
take  me  in  his  own  arms.  Think 
you,  Monsieur  de  Guyon,  that  you 
could  carry  me  six  leagues  ?  Cer- 
tainly you  could  not." 

De  Guyon  thought  that  he  would 
be  happy  if  the  attempt  were  per- 
mitted to  him  ;  but  he  said  nothing 
of  this,  harking  back  rather  to  the 
message  he  must  bear. 

"  The  king  comes  to  the  chateau 
on  Saturday  about  sundown,"  said 
he  ;  "I  am  to  meet  him  there  with 
news  of  you." 

"  Then  that  you  have.  You  will 
tell  him  that  Gabrielle  de  Vernet 
67 


''The  Little  Huguenot." 

will  come  to  the  Court  when  he  shall 
be  pleased  to  carry  her  there." 

He  stared  at  her  now  with  blank 
astonishment. 

"  It  would  cost  me  my  command," 
he  stammered. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  little  con- 
tempt. 

"  Your  command,  Monsieur  de 
Guyon — would  you  buy  that  at  such 
a  price  ?" 

"Mafoi!"  said  he;  but — you  do 
not  know  ;  I  am  poor  and  without 
friends  ;  the  king  trusts  me  in 
this " 

She  laughed  loudly. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  you  are  but  a 
simpleton  after  all.  Come,  you  have 
eaten  no  breakfast.  And  since  you 
must  remain  with  me  some  days,  1 
must  see  that  you  preserve  your  ap- 
petite. We  will  talk  of  this  again. 
Let  us  think  of  going  homeward 
now." 

For  a  moment  he  sat  looking  into 
her  laughing  eyes.  He  seemed  about 
to  answer  her,  but  minutes  passed  be- 
68 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


fore  the  words  came  to  his  lips.     At 
last  he  said  quite  suddenly — 

"  Madame  de  Vernet,  there  is  no 
need  to  talk  of  this  again.  I  will 
take  your  message." 

"  And  resign  hopes  of  a  com- 
mand ?" 

"If  it  must  be." 

' '  But  you  have  said  that  it  must  be. ' ' 

"  Very  well  then,  I  will  resign 
hopes  of  a  command." 

"  You  are  a  brave  man,  Monsieur 
de  Guyon." 

"  But  I  have  my  reward,"  said  he. 

The  look  which  he  gave  her  be- 
trayed all  his  admiration  and  growing 
love.  For  the  first  time  she  was  em- 
barrassed in  his  presence,  and  made 
haste  to  be  put  upon  her  horse.  Nor 
did  she  speak  again  while  they  rode 
through  glade  and  meadow  to  the 
chateau,  turning  her  head  away  from 
him,  and  answering  him  with  mono- 
syllables. She  had  begun  to  believe 
that  de  Guyon  was  a  man  after  all. 
And  in  this,  her  womanhood  was  con- 
quering her. 

69 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    ABBE    GONDY    WRITES    A    SERMON. 

THE  Abb6  Gondy  sat  in  his  study 
on  the  morning  of  the  Friday  follow- 
ing the  coming  of  de  Guyon.  His 
swollen  feet  were  wrapped  in  woollen 
slippers  ;  the  violet  girdle  round  his 
waist  was  loosened — for  the  morning 
was  hot,  and  thunder  hung  over  the 
forest.  Before  him  on  the  great 
carved  oak  table  there  were  rough 
notes  of  a  sermon  he  was  to  preach 
at  the  Mass  on  Sunday  ;  by  his  side, 
a  basin  of  Mocha  coffee  was  steam- 
ing. 

"  Brethren,  love  one  another," 
wrote  the  Abbe,  and  then  he  put  his 
pen  down.  "  She  is  not  going  to  the 
palace,"  he  thought,  "  because  de 
Guyon  has  bungled  it.  The  man  is 
little  better  than  a  fool.  I  believe 
70 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


he  is  in  love  with  her  himself. 
Mother  of  God,  if  she  were  to  marry 
again  I  should  have  no  room  here. 
That  smooth-faced  soldier  would 
take  a  pipe  in  his  hand  and  go  play- 
ing to  the  sheep.  But  if  she  were  at 
the  palace  and  like  the  others,  she 
would  hardly  return." 

"  Even  as  I  have  loved  you,"  wrote 
the  Abbe,  but  again  his  thoughts 
wandered.  "  This  life  is  very  pleas- 
ant," he  said  to  himself,  "  and  I  find 
myself  well  in  this  air.  There  is 
abundance  for  all,  while  in  villages 
and  hamlets  not  ten  leagues  from 
here,  holy  priests  are  starving.  A 
new  master  might  come  here  with 
other  views.  He  might  even  deny 
the  faith  ;  be  unprepared  to  tread 
that  narrow  way  to  which  I  am  lead- 
ing my  children.  In  any  case,  I 
should  have  to  give  up  these  apart- 
ments. But  if  she  went  to  the  palace 
it  might  even  be  that  I  should  remain 
master  to  my  death.  There  is  virtue 
in  an  'if,'  "  thought  the  Abbe. 

The  reflection  deepened  the  gloom 

71 


The  Little  Huguenot" 


of  his  depression.  Since  the  death 
of  the  Comte  de  Vernet,  who  had 
been  stricken  down  by  small-pox  five 
weeks  after  his  marriage  to  Gabrielle, 
the  Abb£  had  lived  in  close  commu- 
nication with  the  young  mistress  of 
the  chateau  ;  had  come  to  know  her 
well  as  a  creature  of  noble  if  quick 
impulses,  of  a  belief  in  God  at  any 
rate,  of  a  strong  will  and  of  a  warm 
heart.  Married  while  a  mere  child 
to  the  count,  life  had  not  scattered 
the  bloom  of  her  girlhood,  nor  awak- 
ened in  her  those  instincts  which 
might  have  been  at  once  her  safe- 
guard and  her  peril.  A  wife  but  not 
a  mother,  she  had  something  of  the 
innocence  of  the  maid  and  of  the 
mind  of  the  woman.  The  Abbe  said 
to  himself  that  no  temptation  could 
be  found  sufficiently  strong  to  taint 
this  innocence  or  break  this  will. 
He  was  only  an  utterly  selfish  man. 
The  fall  of  Gabrielle  de  Vernet  would 
have  been  a  deep  sorrow  to  him.  It 
was  just  because  he  knew  that  she 
was  of  mind  enough  to  cope  wilh 
72 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


danger  successfully  that  he  wished 
her  at  the  palace.  When  a  voice 
whispered  to  him  that  the  peril  to  her 
honour  was  terrible,  he  said  that  the 
devil  spoke.  He  called  to  mind  the 
words  of  the  apostle,  that  no  soul 
should  be  tempted  beyond  that  which 
it  could  bear.  And  at  this,  he  drank 
his  coffee  with  relish. 

"  Brethren,  to-day  I  would  set  be- 
fore you  some  consideration  of  this 
holy  counsel,  that  we  love  one  an- 
other," wrote  the  Abbe  quickly,  and 
with  some  fine  flourishes  of  his  goose 
quill.  He  was  well  started  now,  and 
he  did  not  put  his  pen  down  until  he 
had  filled  four  pages  with  closely- 
written  notes.  Nevertheless  was  the 
thought  of  de  Guyon  hovering  about 
his  mind,  and  of  a  sudden  it  pre- 
sented itself  in  an  aspect  so  alarm- 
ing that  he  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and 
let  the  wind  scatter  the  treasured 
pages  upon  the  soft  carpet  at  his  feet. 

"  Dieu  /"  said  he,  "  this  man  leaves 
us  to-morrow — but  what  message  is 
he  taking  to  the  king  ?  What  excuse 
73 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

will  he  make  for  her  ?  Will  he  urge 
that  my  counsels  prevented  her  ? 
Saints  and  angels  !  that  would  send 
me  to  the  Bastille.  And  he  would 
be  rewarded  and  return  to  marry  her. 
She  is  in  love  with  his  pretty  face,  if 
I  know  anything  of  women.  The 
way  she  speaks  of  him,  too — a  good 
man  to  be  snatched  from  wickedness 
and  made  honest  by  example.  Bah  ! 
a  fop  and  a  farceur  to  be  reckoned 
with.  I  must  think  of  this.  I  have 
an  account  to  settle." 

The  Abbe  thought  of  it,  long  and 
earnestly.  So  absorbing  was  the 
problem  that  twelve  o'clock  struck 
and  he  forgot;  to  say  the  Angelus. 
Far  from  it — for  he  was  then  unlock- 
ing a  drawer  in  his  bureau,  and  occu- 
pying himself  with  an  exquisite  mini- 
ature which  he  laid  upon  his  table  and 
gazed  at  with  affection.  The  man 
was  a  fine  judge  of  art,  and  the  paint- 
ing staring  at  him  from  the  dainty 
gold  frame  was  art  in  her  highest 
perfection.  It  was  the  portrait  of 
Gabrielle  de  Vernet,  painted  on  ivory 

74 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

by  Richard  Cosway,  when  that  mas- 
ter was  the  guest  of  Claude  Vernet 
in  Paris.  The  countess  had  given  it 
to  the  Abbe  as  an  Easter  gift  just  a 
year  ago,  and  it  was  with  a  bitter 
struggle  that  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  part  with  it.  Only,  in  fact, 
when  he  had  convinced  himself  that 
some  bold  step  must  be  taken  to  save 
his  own  skin,  did  he  return  it  to  its 
case,  and  strike  the  gong  at  his 
side. 

"  Dominique." 

"  Monsieur." 

"  Is  the  guide  Pepin  in  the  court- 
yard ?" 

"  He  is  sleeping  in  the  pavilion  by 
the  lake,  monsieur." 

"  Tell  him  I  wish  to  see  him." 

The  man  left,  and  the  Abbe  turned 
again  to  his  desk,  taking  from  it  that 
identical  bag  which  he  had  held  un- 
der Pepin's  nose  three  days  before. 
When  the  guide  entered  the  room, 
the  first  thing  that  he  saw  were  the 
ten  gold  pieces  he  had  lusted  for 
spread  out  on  the  table. 

75 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,"  said 
Pepin  gaily. 

"  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Pepin." 

"  You  sent  for  me  ?" 

"  Sit  down,  my  son.  I  wish  to  talk 
to  you,  since  you  leave  us  to-mor- 
row." 

"  To-morrow  !"  cried  Pepin,  cast- 
ing his  eyes  about  to  see  where  the 
Burgundy  might  be. 

"  Your  master  has  not  told  you, 
then?" 

:<  The  devil  he  hasn't." 

"  You  know  that  madame  does  not 
accompany  you  ?" 

"  That's  common  gossip,  my  fa- 
ther." 

"Exactly.  But  what  say  the 
men  ?" 

"  Oh,  they  say  anything.  They 
wag  their  tongues  like  cows'  tails. 
A  shabby  lot,  on  my  word." 

"  Yes  ;  but  when  they  wag  their 
tongues  what  do  you  hear  ?" 

"Anything  —  everything.  Some 
say  that  when  next  they  come  back 
they  will  leave  yonder  lieutenant 
76 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

where  light  is  dear  and  air  costs 
money — in  a  cell,  mon  ptre. " 

The  Abbe  reflected  for  a  moment. 

"  Would  you  like  a  glass  of  wine, 
Monsieur  Pepin  ?" 

"  Aye — what  wine  it  was  !"  mur- 
mured Pepin,  rolling  his  eyes  and  his 
tongue. 

The  Abbe  struck  his  gong  again. 
When  the  guide  had  gulped  down  a 
great  cup  of  the  Burgundy,  the  priest 
drew  his  chair  nearer  to  him. 

"  My  son,"  said  he,  "  I  find  you  to 
be  a  man  of  large  discernment." 

"  Aye,  there  you  have  it,  my  fa- 
ther," cried  Pepin  ;  "  a  man  of  large 
discernment.  Body  of  John  !  there's 
not  a  man  of  a  larger  between  here 
and  the  Invalides."  At  the  same 
time  he  said  to  himself,  "  What  does 
the  old  rogue  want  now  ?" 

"  And  a  man  to  be  trusted,"  urged 
the  Abbe. 

"  If  there's  one  that  doubts  it,  mon- 
sieur, I  shall  know  how  to  defend  my 
honour." 

The    Abbe    smiled,    remembering 

77 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


that  Pepin's  weapon  was  a  four-holed 
flageolet. 

"Undoubtedly,  Monsieur  Pepin," 
said  he  ;  "  you  are  a  man  of  courage. 
See  how  I  make  you  my  confidant, 
even  going  so  far" — and  here  the 
Abbe  bent  over  until  his  mouth  was 
almost  at  Pepin's  ear — "  even  going 
so  far  as  to  ask  you  what  part  people 
think  I  have  played  in  bringing  about 
madame's  refusal  to  go  to  the  palace. ' ' 

Pepin  scratched  his  head.  "  The 
Abbe  is  measuring  his  own  neck," 
said  he  ;  "it  will  pay  me  to  frighten 
him."  And  then  he  gave  his  answer. 

"  Corbleu!  Monsieur  1'Abbe",  what's 
the  good  of  hiding  things.  All  the 
world  knows  why  the  king  is  refused. 
Your  holy  words — Mother  of  God  ! 
they  moved  even  me." 

The  Abb6  winced,  and  raised  his 
hand  in  a  gesture  of  dissent. 

"  No,  no,  Monsieur  Pepin  ;  it  does 
not  concern  me  at  all.  Heaven  for- 
bid that  such  a  suspicion  should  come 
upon  a  humble  servant  of  his  Maj- 
esty." 

73 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Eh  ?"  exclaimed  Pepin  ;  "  but 
surely  you  would  not  have  her 
go?" 

"  I  ?  My  son,  I  would  not  harm  a 
hair  of  her  head.  But  the  king's 
command — think  of  that  !" 

Pepin  thought  of  it.  His  reply 
was  not  a  pretty  one  :  sticking  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek,  he  made  a  grim- 
ace at  the  priest,  and  then  pointed  to 
the  coins  on  the  table. 

"  What  of  those  gold  pieces,  my 
father?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  They  are  for  you,  my  friend." 

Pepin  stretched  out  his  hand.  The 
Abbe  covered  the  money  with  his 
palms. 

"  If,"  he  continued,  "  you  are  able 
to  do  a  service  for  me." 

Pepin  drew  back  his  hand. 

"By  the  Mass,"  said  he,  "you 
know  how  to  plague  a  man." 

"  Indeed,  my  son,  that  would  be 
an  ill  thing  to  do.  But  the  labourer 
must  prove  worthy  of  his  hire  ;  and, 
first,  I  would  know  if  you  ride  with 
de  Guyon  to-morrow  ?" 

79 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"Dieuf  he  would  fare  ill  without 
me!" 

"  And  at  the  palace  you  are  to  find 
the  king,  alone,  eh  ?" 

Pepin  made  another  grimace.  The 
Abbe  drew  his  chair  still  nearer. 

"  And  his  Majesty  being  alone,  or 
with  very  few  attendants,  it  might  be 
possible  to  slip  a  packet  and  a  letter 
into  his  hand." 

"  As  easy  as  a  paternoster." 

"  For  which  service  you  are  to  have 
ten  pieces  now,  and  ten  more  when 
you  shall  prove  to  me  that  it  has 
been  accomplished." 

Pepin  nodded  his  head  in  rhythm 
with  the  Abbe's  words. 

"  Ten  more  when  it  shall  have  been 
accomplished.  Holy  saints,  Mon- 
sieur 1'Abbe,  what  a  friend  you  are 
buying." 

"  You  will  carry  the  packet  care- 
fully :  it  is  of  great  worth.  And  the 
letter  !" 

"  I  will  carry  them  like  the  sacra- 
ment." 

The  Abbe  turned  to  his  desk,  and 
80 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

wrote  precisely  seven  words  upon  a 
large  sheet  of  paper.  They  were 
these  :  "  Let  the  king  beware  of  his 
ambassador."  Then  he  folded  the 
paper  and  sealed  it. 

"  Monsieur  Pepin,"  said  he,  "  there 
is  no  name  to  this  document  ;  but 
should  you  be  asked  by  his  Majesty 
whence  it  comes,  you  know  how  to 
answer  ?" 

"  Aye,  that  I  do,"  said  Pepin.  "  It 
was  given  to  me  by  a  stranger  on  the 
wayside." 

"Fool!"  said  the  Abbe  testily. 
"  It  was  given  to  you  by  me.  But 
that  is  for  the  king's  ear  alone." 

Pepin  put  the  packet  in  the  breast 
of  his  jerkin,  the  money  in  his  pouch. 

"  The  devil  of  an  Abbe  !"  said  he, 
when  he  was  out  in  the  courtyard. 

But  the  Abbe  was  at  his  prayers. 


8l 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

MASKING    IN    THE    WOODS. 

WHILE  the  venerable  Abbe  was 
writing  his  sermon  upon  love,  de 
Guyon  was  walking  in  the  park  of 
the  chateau  waiting  for  the  coming  of 
Gabrielle  de  Vernet.  It  was  a  feast 
day,  and  a  procession  of  white-robed 
children,  bearing  flowers  and  banners 
and  lighted  candles,  had  just  passed 
by  the  glistening  lake,  and  so  had 
entered  a  wood  in  the  heart  of  which 
the  chapel  of  the  Virgin  had  been 
built.  De  Guyon  listened  to  the 
notes  of  their  hymn,  dying  away  in 
the  groves  and  thickets,  and  then 
walked  slowly  to  the  open  lawns  be- 
fore the  southern  gate  of  the  house — 
for  tables  were  set  here,  and  the  vil- 
lagers from  many  a  mile  round  were 
coming  in  to  share  the  hospitality  of 
82 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


the  woman  they  adored,  and  to  hold 
carnival  in  her  park.  It  was  good  to 
see  the  honest  faces  of  the  woodland- 
ers  in  their  liveries  of  green  ;  the  red 
cheeks  and  dark  eyes  of  the  country 
girls,  all  ready  for  any  play  they 
might  hap  upon  ;  eager  to  anticipate, 
perhaps,  that  moment  when  the  even- 
ing would  come  and  some  of  those 
great  fellows  about  them  would  have 
burdens  in  their  arms.  And  it  was 
no  less  good  to  behold  the  well-cov- 
ered tables,  the  great  casks  of  sound 
wine,  the  piles  of  fruit,  the  sweet- 
meats, the  fantastic  cakes,  the  fat 
capons. 

Everywhere,  indeed,  the  usually 
silent  forest  echoed  the  music  of  the 
horns,  the  lighter  note  of  laughter, 
the  merry  voices  of  the  girls,  the 
neighing  of  horses.  Here  and  there, 
beneath  some  great  elm  or  oak,  you 
might  come  upon  a  wandering  musi- 
cian drawn  to  the  chateau  by  rumour 
of  the  feast,  and  now  scraping  his 
fiddle  or  blowing  his  flute  for  the  de- 
lectation of  the  country  wenches,  all 

83 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


eager  for  the  merry  dance.  Horse- 
men rode  in  from  many  an  outlying 
station  ;  priests  were  to  be  seen 
among  the  people,  and  were  wel- 
comed by  them.  And  when  the  an- 
gry clouds,  which  at  one  time  had 
promised  thunder,  rolled  away  to  the 
east,  and  the  sun  shone  upon  the 
sparkling  lakes,  and  the  breeze  blew 
fresh  and  sweet,  it  was  a  morning  to 
call  even  the  dreamer  to  life. 

De  Guyon,  standing  beneath  the 
shade  of  a  great  oak  tree,  looked 
upon  the  scene  and  found  it  power- 
less to  lift  the  gloom  off  his  mind. 
He  could  not  but  contrast  the  sim- 
plicity, the  freshness,  the  innocence 
of  it  with  the  extravagance,  the  weari- 
ness and  the  guilt  of  those  feverish 
masks  he  was  so  well  accustomed  to 
at  Versailles.  The  light  laughter  of 
these  country  girls,  the  manly  speech 
of  the  men,  the  naivete  of  their  pleas- 
ures would  have  been  a  jest  to  him 
a  week  ago.  But  that  was  before  he 
knew  Gabrielle  de  Vernet. 

"Dieuf  said  he,  "she  will  make 
84 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

a  monk  of  me  ;"  and  he  laughed 
aloud  at  the  thought.  Yet  there  was 
something  very  sweet  in  the  contem- 
plation of  that  seclusion  which  would 
keep  him  always  at  her  side.  For 
some  days  now,  he,  the  wit  and  fine 
gentleman,  had  lived  like  a  priest, 
and  fared  little  better  than  a  reli- 
gieux;  had  gone  to  Mass  at  dawn,  had 
been  content  to  sit  out  vespers  and 
compline,  had  thought  nothing  of 
clothes  for  his  back  or  epigram  for 
his  tongue.  The  silence,  the  sweet- 
ness, the  exhilaration  of  the  forest 
had  entered  into  his  life  ;  awakening 
his  mind  to  the  knowledge  of  a  con- 
tent he  had  not  hitherto  known.  He 
was  lifted  up  out  of  himself  ;  carried 
to  that  high  place  of  the  spirit  where- 
from  man  may  look  down  upon  the 
warfare  of  the  passions,  may  hear  the 
crying  of  those  in  darkness.  And  lie 
said  to  himself  that  surely  it  was  a 
vision  come  to  cheat  him,  since  the 
morrow  must  bring  the  mists  again. 

Of   the   morrow,    for    a   truth,    he 
could  have  little  hope.      He  was  to 
85 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


leave  at  dawn  for  the  chateau  of 
Francis  and  of  Henry  Quatre,  bear- 
ing a  message  which  could  bring  him 
no  favour  nor  hope  of  reward.  He 
had  set  out  to  Fontainebleau,  happy 
in  that  he  had  come  to  play  the  hum- 
ble part  of  a  trusted  intriguer  ;  he 
would  return  to  those  that  sent  him, 
pleading  his  own  failure,  despising 
the  intrigue.  What  the  aftermath 
might  be  he  did  not  care,  if  only  he 
might  return  to  the  forest  to  the  feet 
of  the  little  Huguenot  who  had 
opened  his  eyes  to  such  visions. 

The  crying  of  many  voices  in  the 
park,  a  new  and  louder  note  of  mu- 
sic, the  galloping  of  horses  called 
him  from  dreamland  to  the  scene  be- 
fore him.  Gabrielle  de  Vernet  had 
now  come  down  from  the  chapel,  and 
surrounded  by  a  lusty  body  of  green- 
coated  foresters,  she  made  her  way 
to  the  high  table.  He  said  that  it 
was  good  thus  to  see  her  worshipped 
by  those  to  whom  she  had  given  her 
life  ;  good  to  see  her  as  a  thing  of 
flesh  and  blood  and  warm  human 
86 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


sympathies,  enlarged  and  not  con- 
fined by  the  discipline  to  which  she 
submitted.  At  no  time  could  it  have 
been  urged  that  the  ascetic  side  of 
her  nature  overweighed  the  womanly 
instinct.  She  was  born  for  love  and 
marriage — not  for  the  recluse's  cell. 

De  Guyon  took  his  seat  at  the  high 
table  ;  the  Abbe  waddled  out  of  the 
chateau  and  raised  three  fingers  in 
benediction  of  the  multitude  ;  the 
musicians  scraped  as  they  had  not 
scraped  before  ;  the  feast  opened 
with  a  flourish  of  trumpets  and  a 
lively  babble  of  tongues.  The  girl 
who  presided  over  it  had  a  word  and 
a  look  for  everyone  ;  the  lieutenant 
had  a  word  and  a  look  only  for  her  ; 
the  Abbe  only  for  his  plate.  When 
the  eating  and  drinking  at  length 
were  done  with  (and  the  foresters  had 
appetites  which  were  to  be  measured 
only  by  hours),  the  masqueraders  be- 
gan their  play  in  the  park,  some 
making  believe  to  be  fauns,  some 
sylphs,  some  spirits  of  the  woods. 
Warmed  with  the  invigorating  wine, 
87 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


the  village  girls  set  themselves  with 
trembling  heels  to  the  dance  ;  the 
fiddlers  thrashed  their  fiddles  in  melo- 
dious ecstasies  ;  the  jesters  raised 
their  shrill  voices  ;  the  woodmen 
puckered  up  their  lips  in  hope  of 
kisses  ;  the  lovers  broke  away  to  the 
woods  to  whisper  vows  in  shady 
glens.  It  was  passing  late  in  the 
afternoon  when  at  last  de  Guyon 
found  himself  alone  with  Gabrielle, 
and  able  to  speak  of  the  shadow 
which  the  morrow  would  cast  upon 
his  life,  and,  as  he  hoped,  upon  hers. 
They  had  walked  slowly  from  the 
park  and  come  into  a  little  glen,  in 
the  heart  of  which  a  brook  was  bub- 
bling. There  was  the  shadow  of  as- 
pens here,  the  perfume  of  violets  and 
of  wild  roses  ;  the  fitful  song  of  the 
reed-warbler  and  the  wagtail.  A 
grassy  bank,  grown  over  with  prim- 
roses, served  them  well  for  seat ;  and 
here  they  rested,  while  from  the  dis- 
tant park  the  hum  of  voices  and  the 
light  music  of  the  dance  came  to 
them  on  the  waves  of  the  wind.  But 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

the  spirit  of  the  glen  was  one  of  si- 
lence ;  and  minutes  passed  before 
either  of  them  spoke. 

"  Well,  Monsieur  de  Guyon,"  said 
she  at  last,  "  I  don't  find  you  very 
witty  to-day." 

"  Indeed,"  said  he,  seeking  to  look 
straight  into  her  eyes,  "  but  I  have 
waited  long  for  the  opportunity." 

She  did  not  answer  him  at  once, 
but  began  to  twist  a  posy  of  the  prim- 
roses. A  glow  of  crimson  suffused 
her  face.  There  was  so  much  ten- 
derness in  his  voice  that  she  no  longer 
looked  into  his  eyes — and  she  had 
ceased  to  smile. 

"  You  must  know,"  said  she,  break- 
ing the  embarrassing  silence  with  an 
effort,  "  that  this  is  one  of  the  great 
days  of  my  year " 

"  Henceforth  it  will  be  the  greatest 
day  of  mine,"  said  he,  feeling  that 
whatever  might  come  of  it,  he  would 
not  leave  her  with  the  word  un- 
spoken. 

"  To  amuse  is  as  much  the  duty  of 
those  who  rule  as  to  educate,"  she 
89 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

went  on,  making  no  reference  to  his 
compliment.  "  Three  times  every 
year  my  people  keep  holiday  in  the 
park.  I  encourage  them  to  feel  that 
they  have  some  interest  in  the  main- 
tenance of  my  home — that  they  have 
a  friend  here.  Friendship,  after  all, 
is  a  creed,  Monsieur  de  Guyon." 

De  Guyon  had  thought  so  little  of 
any  religion  at  all,  that  he  was  quite 
out  of  his  depth  when  he  tried  to  re- 
ply to  her. 

"  This  life,"  said  he,  "  this  to-day 
which  is  as  yesterday,  this  to-morrow 
which  must  be  as  to-day,  does  it 
never  weary  you,  never  pall,  never 
set  you  longing  for  that  other  life  be- 
yond your  gates  ?" 

She  smiled  at  him  now. 

"  When  my  life  shall  make  me  love 
less,  then  will  I  think  of  yours." 

"Of  mine?" 

"  Surely,  since  you  throw  down  the 
glove  for  it.  But  tell  me,  mon  ami, 
what  do  they  say  of  the  Chateau  aux 
Loups  at  the  palace  ?  Indeed,  I  am 
very  curious  to  know." 
90 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

De  Guyon  sat  thinking  while  a 
minute  passed. 

"  They  call  you  '  the  little  Hugue- 
not,' believing  you  to  be  in  heart  a 
Protestant,  as  your  husband  was," 
said  he  at  length,  and  quite  bluntly. 
"  They  told  me  that  you  lived  on 
herbs  and  slept  in  a  cell." 

"And  that  was  all?" 

"  Certainly  it  was  not  ;  they  said 
also  that  you  were — well " 

"  Well,  what,  Monsieur  de  Guyon  ? 
How  you  love  to  pique  my  curiosity." 

He  hesitated  to  use  the  word  ;  but 
remembering  that  she  was,  above  all 
else,  a  woman,  he  made  bold  at  last 
to  venture  it. 

"  Parbleu!"  said  he.  "I  will  not 
keep  it  from  you.  They  spoke  of  your 
beauty." 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly. 

"  It  was  unkind  of  them  to  deceive 
you." 

"  To  deceive  me  ?     Oh,  madame  !" 

She  was  now  almost  lying  upon 
the  grass,  her  head  propped  upon 
her  elbows,  her  piquant  oval  face 

91 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


resting  upon  her  hands.  She  had 
dressed  herself  in  white  for  the  mask, 
and  the  ribbons  at  her  neck  and  upon 
her  breast  gave  her  the  air  of  a  little 
school-girl  just  come  out  of  a  con- 
vent. It  seemed  odd  to  de  Guyon 
to  call  her  "  Madame,"  and  when  he 
had  uttered  the  words,  he  could  not 
help  himself  but  must  look  into  her 
great  laughing  eyes  and  fall  in  with 
her  merry  humour. 

"  del!"  said  he,  lying  so  close  to 
her  that  their  faces  almost  touched. 
"  I  begin  to  feel  like  a  father  to  you — 
madame." 

"  And  to  act  like  a  cousin,"  she  ex- 
claimed, but  without  drawing  away 
from  him.  "  Indeed,  I  shall  think 
that  you  wish  to  confess  me." 

"  I  could  find  no  happier  vocation  ; 
but  it  is  I  that  should  confess." 

"  I  am  all  ears.  What  do  you  con- 
fess, monsieur  ?" 

"  The  will  that  once  would  have 
done  you  an  injury." 

"  Of  which  guilt ?" 

"  I  am  duly  penitent." 
92 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  And  for  penance  ?" 

"  I  leave  you  at  dawn." 

She  became  serious  in  a  moment, 
casting  down  her  eyes  and  playing 
nervously  with  the  flowers  she  had 
picked.  But  he,  longing  for  her  with 
an  ardent  passion — the  first  guiltless 
passion  of  his  life — pursued  his  ques- 
tioning. 

"You  give  me  absolution?"  he 
asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  give  you  my  friendship,"  she 
replied,  looking  up,  and  with  tender- 
ness, into  his  eyes. 

"  Your  friendship  !"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Oh,  I  will  treasure  that  !  Would 
to  God  it  were  something  more  !" 

The  fervour  of  his  words  seemed  to 
trouble  her. 

"  Friendship,"  she  said,  speaking 
very  earnestly,  "  is  a  woman's  best 
gift.  She  has  nothing  else." 

"  But  her  love  ?" 

"  That  she  cannot  give  or  hold. 
The  power  is  not  hers.  And  friend- 
ship, Monsieur  de  Guyon,  is  the  gate- 
way of  love." 

93 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

"  If  it  should  be  so  for  me,  Ga- 
brielle?" 

"  Dear  friend,"  she  answered, 
while  he  could  hear  his  own  heart 
beating,  "  what  will  be  is  known  to 
God  alone.  Let  us  lift  up  our  hearts 
to  Him." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  be- 
tween both  of  his. 

"  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  your 
lips,  Gabrielle.  Oh,  I  would  give 
half  my  years  if  the  yesterday  of  life 
could  be  blotted  out." 

She  knew  that  he  wished  to  tell 
her  of  the  pain  which  the  remem- 
brance of  other  years — loveless  years 
and  years  to  be  forgotten — brought 
upon  him.  There,  in  the  silence  of 
the  glen,  pictures  of  his  past  went 
whirling  before  his  eyes,  showing 
him  the  scenes  he  would  well  have 
shut  out,  the  burning  lips  whose 
kisses  he  had  known,  the  dark  places 
he  had  trodden.  The  girl  at  his  side 
seemed  unreal — a  vision  from  the 
hills — something  beyond  his  touch  or 
hope.  Could  he  have  read  her  heart 
94 


•'The  Little  Huguenot." 

he  would  have  known  that  she  was 
helplessly  following  the  path  of  her 
emotions,  making  no  effort  to  stem 
the  tide  of  her  affection,  saying  only, 
"  I  will  lift  him  up,  and  in  me  he 
shall  find  all  else — even  the  divine 
life." 

Thus  always  did  the  woman  in  her 
conquer. 

The  pause  was  a  long  one.  He 
broke  it  in  a  sudden  memory  of  the 
morrow. 

"  I  shall  see  the  king  at  sunset," 
he  said. 

She  shuddered. 

"  And  shall  carry  him  your  mes- 
sage," he  went  on. 

"  And  then  ?" 

"  Ah  !  God  knows  ;  but  in  my 
thoughts  I  shall  be  here." 

His  despondency  reminded  her 
again  of  his  danger.  She  began  to 
tremble  for  him,  telling  herself  that 
she  had  asked  the  sacrifice. 

"You  do  not  fear  for  yourself?" 
she  asked. 

"  When  I  have  your  friendship." 

95 


"The  Little  Huguenot" 


"  But  that  cannot  protect  you  ; 
and  the  king  may  yet  carry  me  to  the 
chateau." 

It  was  his  turn  now  to  anticipate 
the  shadow  upon  their  path. 

"  He  will  never  carry  you  there 
while  I  live,"  said  he. 

"  Then  you  have  little  confidence. 
Indeed,  man  ami,  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  shall  carry  myself  to  his  Majesty  to 
save  you." 

"  God  forbid  that  such  a  day 
should  be  !" 

She  was  about  to  answer  him  when 
the  leaves  above  them  rustled,  and  a 
dark  figure  stood  out  against  the 
foliage.  Twilight  had  now  come 
down  into  the  glen,  and  darkness  al- 
most hid  the  brook  at  their  feet.  So 
startling  was  the  apparition — which 
was  gone  in  an  instant — that  the  girl 
cried  out,  and  instinctively  clung  to 
her  companion,  who  encircled  her  in 
a  moment  with  both  his  arms,  and  so 
held  her  close  to  him.  He  himself 
had  seen  nothing  ;  he  had  heard  only 
the  breaking  of  the  boughs.  But  to 
96 


The  Little  Huguenot." 


her  the  interruption  seemed  almost  a 
warning. 

"Look,"  said  she,  "how  late  it 
grows.  They  will  be  missing  us." 

"  What  matter,"  he  cried,  "  since 
I  have  you  in  my  arms." 

"  I  was  frightened,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"  But  shall  be  frightened  no  more." 

She  resisted  him  no  longer,  and  he 
covered  her  lips  with  burning  kisses, 
dismantling  her  pretty  hair  so  that  it 
was  spread  about  in  gold-brown  curls 
upon  her  shoulders,  and  holding  her 
so  close  to  him  that  he  could  feel  the 
beating  of  her  heart. 

"  God  make  me  worthy  of  you," 
he  said — and  so  he  sealed  a  vow  upon 
her  lips. 

*  *  *  * 

The  vesper  bell  was  ringing  when 
they  came  into  the  park  again,  and 
the  masquerade  was  done.  But  a 
group  of  wise  men  and  chattering 
hags  stood  beneath  a  great  gnarled 
oak,  discussing  a  question  of  grave 
import. 

97 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  God  defend  us  from  all  evil  !" 
said  one  of  the  oracles,  "  for  the  spec- 
tre monk  is  abroad  in  the  forest  this 
night." 


CHAPTER   IX. 

PEPIN  MAKES    A  BARGAIN. 

DE  GUYON  rode  away  from  the 
Chateau  aux  Loups  at  dawn  on  the 
morning  of  the  Saturday.  It  was  not 
until  High  Mass  was  done  on  the 
Sunday  that  Gabrielle  de  Vernet  had 
news  of  him.  At  that  hour,  Pepin 
the  guide  came  galloping  into  the 
courtyard  of  the  chateau,  crying 
loudly  to  have  audience  of  its  mis- 
tress, and  of  the  venerable  Abbe  who 
counselled  her. 

"  Mass  or  no  mass,"  said  he  to  the 
stableman,  "  I  have  a  word  for  them 
which  will  not  wait,  even  though  I 
cry  it  from  the  pulpit.  And  hark  ye, 
friend,  had'st  thou  a  stoop  of  wine  I 
would  love  thee  the  better.  Body  of 
Bacchus,  I  could  drink  a  river." 

The  words  had  scarce  left  his  lips 

99 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


when  the  door  of  the  chapel  was 
thrown  open,  and  the  deep  trumpet- 
like  notes  of  the  great  organ  filled 
the  courtyard.  One  by  one,  the  men 
and  women  of  Gabrielle  de  Vernet's 
household  passed  out  to  the  park, 
there  to  greet  their  neighbours,  or  to 
form  members  of  the  little  groups 
which  discussed  this  sudden  coming 
of  the  guide.  A  few  of  the  older  ser- 
vants waited  for  their  mistress  at  the 
door  of  the  church  ;  but  she  remained 
some  minutes  engaged  in  silent  pray- 
er ;  and  when  at  length  she  appeared 
among  them,  the  Abbe  Gondy  was 
at  her  side — a  Sabbath  smile  of  gen- 
erous benevolence  upon  his  face,  a 
great  hunger  'for  the  coming  dinner 
to  be  read  in  his  watery  eyes. 

"  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Pepin, "  said 
the  Abbe"  cheerily  when  he  observed 
the  still-mounted  guide,  "  we  did  not 
look  for  you  to-day." 

"  Nor  I  for  myself,  Monsieur 
1'Abbe,"  said  Pepin,  coming  down 
clumsily  from  his  horse  ;  "  but  what 
is  must  be — and  that's  logic  any  day. 


The  Little  Humienot." 


I  have  letters  for  you,    my  father — 
and  for  my  lady  here." 

The  countess  had  said  no  word  as 
yet,  but  her  face  had  lost  the  smile  it 
wore  when  she  had  quitted  the  chapel, 
and  she  answered  the  buffoon  with  a 
very  stately  but  chilling  inclination 
of  her  pretty  head. 

"  You  left  Monsieur  de  Guyon 
well  ?"  asked  the  Abbe,  looking 
wearily  at  the  sealed  packet  which 
had  come  between  him  and  his  din- 
ner. 

"  Corbleu!  you  jest,  monsieur — I 
left  him  in  a  dungeon,  as  yonder  letter 
will  tell." 

Gabrielle  uttered  a  little  cry,  but 
smothered  it  on  her  lips  ;  the  Abbe 
raised  his  hands  to  heaven  and  rolled 
his  eyes  as  though  a  sharp  pain  had 
cut  him. 

"  God  keep  us  all  from  harm,"  said 
he,  "  what  a  thing  to  hear  !" 

"  Aye,  a  sorry  tale  to  come  chatter- 
ing to  any  house  with,"  added  Pepin 
apologetically,  "  and  like  to  be  sor- 
rier before  the  week's  out.  By  the 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


toe  of  Peter,  my  poor  lieutenant  may 
hear  Mass  in  the  Bastille  next  Sun- 
day." 

The  girl's  heart  was  beating  very 
fast  while  she  listened  to  the  news  ; 
tears  strove  for  mastery  with  her,  but 
were  conquered.  She  was  not  one  to 
wear  her  heart  upon  her  sleeve  ; 
and  it  was  with  complete  self-posses- 
sion that  she  spoke  to  the  guide. 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  service  in 
this  matter,"  said  she,  "  it  was  good 
of  you  to  hasten  here.  You  must 
now  think  of  dinner  and  of  rest." 

"  While  we  find  a  way  of  helping 
our  poor  friend,"  murmured  the 
priest. 

Leaving  Pe'pin  and  the  Abb6  in 
the  court,  Gabrielle  entered  her  room, 
and  opened  her  letter  with  trembling 
fingers.  When  she  had  read  it,  she 
fell  upon  her  knees  before  the  little 
altar  in  her  oratory,  and  the  tears 
which  she  had  erstwhile  controlled 
forced  themselves  through  her  fingers. 
She  began  to  reproach  herself  that 
she  had  permitted  de  Guyon  to  leave 
102 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

her  ;  she  seemed  to  feel  again  his 
burning  kisses,  but  now  they  stung 
her  lips  ;  she  prayed  with  wild,  un- 
chosen  words  that  he  might  come  to 
her  again  ;  she  recalled  that  moment 
in  the  park  when  she  lay  in  his  arms 
— it  stood  out  as  the  sweetest  mo- 
ment of  her  life.  In  spirit  she  had 
given  herself  wholly  to  the  man  since 
that  night  in  the  glen.  Why,  then, 
she  asked  bitterly,  had  she  suffered 
him  to  go  ? 

Meanwhile  the  Abbe  had  taken 
Pepin  to  his  apartments,  and  when 
they  were  alone,  had  begun  to  plague 
him  with  a  hundred  questions. 

"  You  gave  the  king  the  packet  ?" 
he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Am  I  then  a  knave?"  pleaded 
Pepin. 

"  And  his  Majesty  said ?" 

"Ah,  it  was  good  to  hear.  He 
said,  '  If  that  is  the  face  of  the  little 
Huguenot,  I  will  ride  a  hundred 
leagues  to  find  her.'  ' 

"  Merciful  God  !"  cried  the  Abbe, 
"  he  will  come  here  to  fetch  her." 
103 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"It  is  very  possible,  my  father. 
That  will  be  a  good  day  for  you." 

"  How — for  me  ?" 

"  Why,  did  not  I  mention  it  ?" 
'  You  said  nothing — that's  what  I 
complain  of,  you  are  a  dull  fellow." 

"  Patience,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,"  said 
Pepin,  anxious  to  plan  out  his  tale, 
"  let  us  first  talk  about  those  ten 
pieces." 

'  To  the  devil — that  is,  you  are  a 
greedy  rascal." 

The  Abbe  counted  the  money  out 
upon  the  table,  and  then  continued 
impatiently — 

"  Well — and  what  now  ?" 

"  A  cup  of  the  wine  of  Burgundy, 
my  father." 

The  Abbe  stamped  his  foot  sav- 
agely, but  sent  for  the  wine. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  with  sarcastic  de- 
liberation, "  if  you  do  not  speak 
plainly,  Monsieur  Pepin,  I  will  lay 
my  cudgel  on  your  back." 

"  The   saints   forbid    that    a    holy 
priest     should     so     forget     himself. 
Would  you  crack  the  cup  to  save  the 
104 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


wine,  monsieur  ?  Parbleu,  what 
folly  !" 

"  Then  answer  me  as  I  wish." 

"  I  am  all  attention." 

"  His  Majesty  referred  to  his  hum- 
ble servant  ?" 

"  Certainly — I  have  his  words  in 
my  mind  now.  '  I  shall  know  how 
to  deal  with  my  friend,  the  Abbe,' 
he  said  ;  what  more  would  you 
want  ?" 

"  But  that — Holy  Virgin,  that  may 
mean  anything.  He  would  say  the 
same  if  he  sent  me  to  the  Bastille." 

"  Possibly." 

"  And  he  added  nothing  to  it  ?" 

"  The  devil  a  word." 

The  Abbe  groaned,  sinking  back 
in  his  chair.  Pepin  continued  to 
quaff  huge  draughts  of  the  luscious 
wine,  and  to  plume  himself  upon  the 
lies  he  was  telling.  "  Ho,  ho," 
thought  he,  "  the  Abbe  would  cudgel 
his  servant,  would  he  ?  But  we  shall 
see." 

"  Monsieur  Pepin,"  said  the  Abbe 
after  a  pause,  "  I  am  like  to  come  to 
105 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


trouble  with  the  king,  I  fear.  There 
has  been  some  bungling  here.  I 
shall  set  out  for  the  chateau  this  very 
night,  with  you  for  my  guide.  A 
word  from  me  will  make  all  straight." 

"Aye,  that  it  will." 

"  You  are  prepared  to  accompany 
me?" 

"  My  fee  is  ten  crowns,  holy  fa- 
ther." 

The  Abbe  sighed. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  he,  "I 
will  order  the  horses  for  sunset." 


106 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE    WOMAN    AND    THE    PRIEST. 

GABRIELLE  spent  the  afternoon  of 
her  Sunday  in  prayer  and  thought. 
Her  young  face  was  deep  stained 
with  tears  when  the  vesper  bell  rang 
out  over  the  forest ;  and  for  the  first 
time  since  she  had  come  to  the  cha- 
teau, the  villagers  remarked  that  she 
was  not  in  church.  But  she  had  no 
heart  to  appear  among  them  ;  and 
when  the  sun  began  to  sink  over  the 
western  woods,  she  was  still  pacing 
her  chamber  ;  at  one  moment  chid- 
ing herself  for  the  evil  which  had  be- 
fallen ;  at  the  next,  taking  courage 
of  her  impulse  to  save  her  lover. 

Child  that  she  was,  this  conviction 

that  she  alone  could  save  de  Guyon 

gained  strength  every  hour.     It  was 

the  one  substantial  conviction  chosen 

107 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


of  all  the  confusing  ideas  which  came 
upon  her.  Until  this  time,  perhaps, 
she  had  scarce  realised  that  she 
loved  ;  but  now  passion  broke  the 
bonds,  and  stood  before  her  question- 
ingly.  A  deep  longing  to  kiss  the 
lips  of  her  lover  again,  to  stand  with 
him  where  he  should  stand,  to  suffer 
with  him  when  he  should  suffer,  over- 
whelmed her.  A  week  ago  she  would 
have  laughed  to  scorn  the  suggestion 
that  any  man  thus  should  come  be- 
tween her  and  the  path  she  had 
chosen.  But  destiny  was  playing 
with  her  ;  it  remained  to  be  seen  if  it 
would  crush  her. 

Until  the  dusk  fell,  she  warred  with 
the  many  devices  which  her  brain 
wrought — rejecting  this  scheme,  dal- 
lying with  that.  Her  earliest  impulse 
had  been  to  write  to  the  king,  declar- 
ing her  love  boldly  ;  concealing  noth- 
ing in  the  hope  that  sincerity  would 
prove  the  best  of  weapons.  Anon, 
the  impossibility  of  stirring  any  gen- 
erous emotions  in  the  heart  of  the 
"  Well-Beloved"  turned  her  to 
108 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


thoughts  of  her  cousin  Claude  and 
of  his  influence.  In  any  other  case, 
she  said,  that  influence  would  help 
her  ;  but  what  would  be  its  worth 
when  pitted  against  the  king's  will  ! 
Nor  had  she  other  kinsman  at  the 
Court,  but  must  come  back  to  the  re- 
membrance of  her  slight  relationship 
to  the  Marquis  de  Monnier,  and  to 
the  fact  that  he  was  then  at  Nancy. 
The  old  President  would  befriend  her 
if  she  could  gain  his  ear  ;  yet  how 
would  de  Guyon  fare  in  the  between- 
while  ?  Had  not  Pepin  said  that  he 
would  be  in  the  Bastille  before  the 
week  was  out  ? 

The  vesper  bell  had  ceased  to  boom 
in  the  tower  of  the  chapel  ;  the  chant- 
ing of  the  choir  in  court  and  cloister 
was  like  the  echo  of  some  sweet  celes- 
tial hymn  ;  the  cattle  in  the  park 
were  going  down  to  the  waters  ;  the 
birds  were  roosting,  when  at  length 
the  mistress  of  the  chateau  made  up 
her  mind.  If  she  had  been  tempted 
at  one  time  to  open  her  heart  to  the 
Abbe,  who  posed  as  her  governor, 
109 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


she  resolved  when  dusk  had  come 
that  she  would  seek  other  counsel. 
The  thought  had  come  to  her  as  an 
inspiration  while  she  had  been  listen- 
ing at  her  window  to  the  music  of 
the  choir.  In  all  the  country  round, 
she  remembered  that  she  had  only 
one  friend — and  he  was  an  exile  and 
an  outcast.  But  she  would  go  to 
him  in  her  need,  and  in  his  words 
would  find  consolation. 

Nerved  to  the  resolution  by  the 
dominating  love  which  had  come  so 
swiftly,  so  stealthily  into  her  life,  she 
resolved  also  that  she  would  go  alone. 
Her  girlhood  shrank  from  any  confi- 
dences. If  de  Guyon  were  to  be 
saved,  it  would  not  be  by  proclaim- 
ing urbi  et  orbi  that  she  loved  him. 
Any  sacrifice  that  she  could  make 
she  would  offer  cheerfully.  There 
were  wild  moments  when  she  said 
that  she  would  even  yield  to  the 
king,  if  thereby  she  might  help  her 
lover  ;  but  this  thought  she  was  quick 
to  repent  and  to  beat  from  her  mind. 
All  her  purity  of  soul  revolted  at  it. 
no 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


She  knew  that  if  once  Louis's  lips 
touched  her  own,  that  never  again 
could  she  bear  de  Guyon's  kisses,  or 
suffer  his  embrace. 

It  was  dusk  when  she  took  her  res- 
olution ;  it  was  nearly  dark  when  at 
last  she  quitted  the  chateau,  hiding 
her  face  in  the  folds  of  a  black  cloak, 
and  fleeing  with  light  step  to  the  dis- 
tant woods.  There  was  not  a  path 
in  all  the  forest  round  that  was  un- 
familiar to  her  ;  scarce  a  thicket  she 
had  not  penetrated  ;  a  copse  she  had 
not  explored.  Darkness  could  not 
hinder  her,  nor  the  shades  of  night 
deter.  Like  some  fairy  of  the  glens, 
she  passed  now  through  unfrequented 
meadows  ;  now  through  ravines  hid 
in  the  darkness  ;  now  by  black  pools 
and  bubbling  streamlets.  Often  she 
would  pause  to  listen  to  the  snapping 
of  the  twigs  or  the  rustle  of  the 
branches — but  her  ear  told  her  that 
no  human  thing  was  near.  She 
walked  alone — a  worthy  child  of  the 
forest  she  loved. 

Once  in  her  flight,  she  passed  the 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


hut  of  some  woodlanders  who  had 
grouped  themselves  about  a  fire  of 
logs.  They  started  up  with  oaths 
upon  their  lips  when  they  heard  her 
footstep  ;  but  observing  her  young 
face,  they  crossed  themselves  and 
called  upon  the  saints.  Or,  again, 
she  came  of  a  sudden  upon  a  rough 
fellow,  a  worthy  tenant  of  the  Ca- 
verne  des  Brigands,  which  she  was  ap- 
proaching ;  and  for  a  moment  a  sav- 
age thought  possessed  him,  and  he 
made  a  step  towards  her.  But  she 
looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and  rec- 
ognising her,  he  slunk  away  into  the 
bramble  like  a  boy  that  has  been 
beaten.  The  little  Huguenot  was 
not  as  other  women  to  such  a  one  ; 
she  was  a  child  of  mystery,  a  guard- 
ian spirit  breathing  benevolence  and 
charity  and  love  ;  a  creature  of  the 
heavens  sent  to  do  battle  with  devils 
stalking  the  forest.  There  was  not  a 
woodlander  about  the  precincts  of 
the  chateau  who  did  not  in  some  way 
associate  her  with  the  Blessed  Vir- 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


gin.  They  called  her  sometimes  a 
"  daughter  of  Mary."  And  this  was 
rather  the  outcome  of  their  love  than 
of  their  ignorance. 

At  the  distance  of  half-a-mile  or 
less  from  that  dark  place  of  the  forest 
known  as  the  Cave  of  the  Brigands, 
Gabrielle  began  for  the  first  time  to 
find  trouble  of  the  way.  She  was 
now  in  the  heart  of  an  almost  im- 
penetrable wood,  a  wood  where  thorn 
and  briar  were  knitted  about  the  ser- 
ried trunks,  and  sweet-smelling  creep- 
ers twined  ropes  across  her  path.  So 
heavy  was  the  canopy  of  branches,  so 
close  did  the  bushes  grow,  that  the 
dark  of  a  moonless  night  reigned  in 
all  the  grove.  Even  the  cloudless 
sky  above  was  hidden  by  the  leaves  ; 
no  path  trodden  of  man  was  to  be 
seen  ;  the  only  note  upon  the  silence 
was  the  ceaseless  music  of  the  night- 
ingale, or  the  howling  of  the  wolves. 
And  through  this  wood,  onward  to 
its  depths,  the  girl  must  pick  her 
steps  ;  often  tearing  her  arms  in  the 
"3 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


bramble,  often  feeling  some  beast  or 
bird  stirring  at  her  very  feet,  often 
despairing  of  her  mission. 

In  the  heart  of  the  grove,  and  when 
Gabrielle  had  told  herself  that  she 
had  mistaken  the  way  and  must  re- 
trace her  steps,  she  came  suddenly 
upon  a  little  lawn  of  grass,  and  at 
this  she  cried  aloud  with  pleasure. 
Hid  in  the  trees  upon  the  opposite 
side  of  the  sward  was  a  hut  of  logs, 
from  the  open  door  of  which  an  aure- 
ole of  light  fell  upon  the  grass,  shin- 
ing as  a  beacon  of  the  wood  warn- 
ingly.  And  the  girl's  cry  was  heard 
and  answered  ;  scarce  had  it  escaped 
her  lips  when^he  outcast  Jesuit,  who 
had  warned  de  Guyon  as  he  went  to 
the  chateau,  stood  in  the  doorway  of 
the  hut  asking,  "  Who  goes  ?" 

"  It  is  I,  Gabrielle,"  she  said,  trem- 
bling in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Merciful  God,  you  !"  cried  the 
priest,  holding  his  lantern  high,  that 
its  rays  might  fall  upon  her  face. 

"  Yes,"    she   said,   recovering  her 
calm  when  she  heard  his  voice  ;  "  I 
114 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

come  to  you  for  help — you  will  not 
refuse  it  to  me  ?" 

"  I,  child— what  a  thought !" 

She  followed  him  into  the  hut, 
which  contained  little  but  his  bed  of 
moss,  his  books  of  devotion,  and  his 
crucifix.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
devils  tearing  at  the  man's  heart,  of 
the  hours  when  her  face  had  stood 
between  him  and  his  prayers,  when 
he  had  wrestled  with  her  haunting 
image  until  the  sweat  stood  upon  his 
brow.  To  her,  he  was  one  of  God's 
messengers — a  man  between  whose 
soul  and  sin  a  great  gulf  was  fixed. 
And  while  she  offered  him  this  whole 
worship  of  her  trust,  voices  were  cry- 
ing in  his  ears  and  telling  him  that 
he  loved  her. 

But  while  all  this  was  passing  in 
his  mind  he  had  found  a  log  for  her 
to  sit  upon,  and  setting  the  lantern 
between  them,  he  fixed  his  question- 
ing eyes  upon  her. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  you  are  in 
trouble?" 

She  answered  him  very  simply,  tell- 
"5 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


ing  him  of  the  coming  of  the  king's 
messenger,  and  of  his  arrest.  But  of 
her  love,  she  had  not  as  yet  the  cour- 
age to  speak.  Nor  did  the  priest 
read  her  heart,  as  she  looked  for  him 
to  do. 

"Well,"  said  he,  when  he  had 
thought  long  upon  the  matter,  "  and 
what  is  all  this  to  you  ?  The  man 
came  here  with  lies  upon  his  lips. 
Why  should  you  stand  between  him 
and  his  intrigues  ?" 

"  What  he  suffers,  he  suffers  for 
me,"  she  pleaded. 

"  Nay  ;  what  he  suffers,  he  suffers 
for  his  ambition." 

"  But  he  carried  my  message." 

"  Which  you 'have  no  proof  that  he 
delivered." 

"  I  have  his  promise  and  I  ask  no 
more.  Oh,  you  do  not  know  him  as 
I  do!" 

The  priest  raised  his  eyes  quickly. 

11  You  come  here  as  his  friend, 
then " 

"  I  come  here  to  save  him." 

"  But  why  ? — what  is  he  to  you  ?" 
116 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

"  He — he  is  my  lover." 

She  had  not  thought  that  it  would 
be  so  difficult  to  tell  him,  but  now 
when  the  word  was  spoken  her  heart- 
strings were  unloosed,  and  she  con- 
tinued passionately — 

"  Judge  me  not  hastily,  my  father 
— only  pray  for  me.  I  am  a  woman 
and  I  have  a  woman's  heart.  If  I 
love,  it  is  because  my  heart  bids  me 
to  love.  Indeed,  it  is  not  given  us  to 
say  yes  or  no.  A  week  ago,  I  be- 
lieved that  I  should  live  alone  always 
for  Christ  and  His  glory,  but  this  has 
come  into  my  life  as  a  gift  of  God. 
Oh,  I  cannot  turn  from  it,  I  cannot 
make  myself  other  than  I  am." 

The  priest's  hands  were  clenched, 
there  was  a  strange  buzzing  in  his 
ears,  his  brain  seemed  to  burn  while 
he  listened  to  her  words.  He  had 
been  in  some  way  the  master  of  him- 
self so  long  as  she  lived  the  virgin's 
life  at  the  chateau  ;  but  now  that  she 
talked  of  love  for  another  man,  a 
fierce,  passionate  envy  came  upon 
him,  and  there  was  a  moment  when 
117 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


his  strength  seemed  to  ebb  so  that  he 
could  scarce  wrestle  longer  with 
temptation. 

"You  forsake,  then,"  he  said 
sternly,  "  the  faith  to  which  Christ 
has  called  you  ;  you  thrust  from  you 
the  companionship  of  the  saints  ; 
you  close  your  ears  to  the  heavenly 
voices " 

She  fell  upon  her  knees  before  him 
sobbing. 

"  No,  no  !"  she  exclaimed  ;  "I 
forsake  nothing  as  God  is  my  witness 
— I  only  love." 

He  raised  her  up  with  a  gentle 
hand.  The  generosity  of  his  soul 
was  prevailing  over  his  humanity. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  who  am  I 
to  be  your  judge — or  to  say  this  is 
or  this  is  not  the  will  of  God.  May 
His  Holy  Spirit  guide  you  !" 

With  this  word,  he  knelt  at  his 
faldstool  ;  and  while  she  believed 
that  he  was  offering  a  prayer  for  her, 
he  warred  anew  with  the  impulses 
which  possessed  him,  suffered  all  the 
agony  of  a  soul  in  bondage.  When 
118 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


he  rose  up  at  last,  his  eyes  were  full 
of  kindness  for  her,  and  the  touch  of 
her  hand  no  longer  thrilled  him. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  you  have  not 
yet  told  me  how  I  am  to  help  you." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  and 
answered  him  frankly — 

"  Bring  my  lover  to  me." 

She  believed  that  he  was  all-power- 
ful, a  man  above  men,  whose  word 
was  a  command,  whose  will  might 
work  miracles.  And  he,  knowing  his 
weakness,  was  yet  vain  of  her  confi- 
dence. 

"  I — child,"  said  he,  "  for  whose 
body  there  is  a  ransom  ;  I,  whom  the 
king  would  tear  limb  from  limb  ; 
how  shall  I  bring  your  lover  back  to 
you  ?" 

"  I  cannot  answer  you.  I  have  no 
other  friend — I  trust  you.  You  will 
not  let  me  suffer." 

He  was  standing  at  the  door  of  his 
hut  now,  and  before  he  spoke  again, 
he  paced  the  grassy  knoll  which  was 
his  garden.  The  moon  had  risen 
above  the  forest  while  they  talked, 
119 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


and  all  the  woods  were  lit  with  the 
silver  beams.  There  was  exhilaration 
in  the  night-air  ;  a  breath  of  courage 
and  of  strength. 

"  Gabrielle,"  said  the  priest,  wak- 
ing suddenly  from  the  spell  which 
the  beauties  of  the  night  had  cast 
upon  him,  "  is  the  king  at  his  cha- 
teau ?" 

"  He  was  there  at  dawn." 

"  Who  brought  the  news  ?" 

"  Pepin,  the  guide.  " 

"  He  carried  a  letter  for  the 
Abbe?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah!" 

He  stood  for  a  moment  erect,  the 
moon  shining  upon  his  black  hair,  his 
eyes  looking  fondly  upon  the  girl  at 
his  side. 

"  Child,"  said  he,  "  there  is  but 
one  way  out  of  your  difficulty — you 
must  see  the  king." 

"  See  him  !" 

"  As  I  say,  you  must  leave  here  at 
dawn  and  go  straight  to  the  chateau 
of  Francis." 

120 


"  The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  But — oh  my  father — you  know 
that  he  has  sent  for  me." 

"  I  know  all  ;  that  is  why  I  wish 
you  to  see  him." 

"  And  when  I  am  there  ?" 

"  When  you  are  there,  I  shall  be 
there  too." 

"  You — but  they  would  kill  you." 

The  Jesuit  laughed  a  little  bitterly. 

' '  They  have  long  asked  my  death, ' ' 
said  he,  "  and  yet  I  live.  Fear  noth- 
ing for  me." 

Selfishness  is  often  the  dominating 
note  of  love.  Gabrielle  heard  in  the 
priest's  words  only  the  promise  that 
he  would  save  de  Guyon.  And  so 
great  was  her  trust  in  this  man's 
strength,  that  all  her  trouble  seemed 
over  when  he  bade  her  follow  him  to 
her  home.  She  did  not  know,  as  she 
watched  him  striding  along  with  the 
lantern's  light  dancing  on  their  path, 
that  he  was  thinking  of  Damiens, 
who  had  been  torn  limb  from  limb 
by  wild  horses.  So  also  would  they 
do  to  him  when  the  king's  men  laid 
hands  upon  him. 

121 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    ABBE    AND    THE    TREE. 

WHILE  the  Jesuit  was  guiding  Ga- 
brielle  through  the  labyrinthine  way 
of  the  woods,  Pepin  was  reckoning 
with  himself  on  a  hill-top  in  that  part 
of  the  forest  known  as  the  desert. 

"  God  deliver  me  from  all  abbes  !" 
said  he  ruefully  ;  and  then  with  unc- 
tion in  his  voice  he  began  to  cry 
loudly — 

"  This  way,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  this 
way.  Guardian  angels  keep  your 
holy  feet  out  of  yonder  bog.  Dieu  > 
I  thought  that  I  had  lost  you." 

Now  the  Abbe's  feet  were  not  holy  ; 
they  were  only  swollen  with  the 
gout  ;  Pepin  knew  well  enough  that 
the  venerable  man  was  not  lost.  The 
truth  was  that  the  artful  guide  found 
himself  in  such  a  pretty  net,  that  he 
122 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


had  led  the  priest  three  good  leagues 
out  of  his  way,  while  he  himself  re- 
considered his  position.  "  For," 
said  he,  "  if  I  carry  this  Abbe"  to  the 
palace,  the  king  will  learn  that  I  have 
been  lying  ;  or  again,  if  I  carry  him 
back  to  the  chateau,  he  will  want  his 
ten  crowns  of  me.  Corbleu  !  I  must 
think  of  it." 

The  Abbe's  mule  came  labouring 
up  the  hill,  and  presently  the  corpu- 
lent body  of  the  Churchman  was  to 
be  observed  in  the  moonlight.  His 
face  was  scarlet  with  passion,  and 
with  the  wounds  which  the  thorns 
had  cut  in  his  skin. 

"  Fool  and  knave,"  cried  he  to  Pe- 
pin,  "  that  makes  pretence  to  be  a 
guide,  and  yet  cannot  lead  me  six 
leagues  through  the  forest.  By  the 
God  above  me,  I  will  crack  my  staff 
upon  your  back  if  you  do  not  find 
the  path  this  instant." 

Pepin  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Look  you,  my  father,"  said  he, 
"  what  an  ill  thing  that  would  be — 
for  the  instant  is  already  gone,  and 
123 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


we  are  not  come  to  the  path.  Did 
you  crack  your  staff,  there  would  be 
one  good  cudgel  less  in  the  world, 
and,  like  enough,  no  master  for  it 
when  the  morning  came.  Oh,  we 
are  in  a  pretty  place  !  Body  of  Paul, 
I  am  near  to  being  lost  as  ever  I 
was." 

"  Lost  !"  gasped  the  Abbe,  "  then 
the  Lord  help  us.  Do  you  dare  to 
tell  me  that  you  know  nothing  of  this 
road  ?" 

Pepin  scratched  his  head. 

"  Yonder."  said  he,  "  lies  the  brig- 
ands' den,  as  full  of  cut-throats  as  a 
nest  of  eggs.  Yonder  again" — and 
here  he  swept  his  arm  round  bravely, 
indicating  the  wood  they  were  about 
to  enter — "  is  the  very  tree  upon 
which  they  hanged  the  body  of  the 
Chevalier  Geoffrin  after  they  had 
robbed  him  of  his  purse  and  cut  off 
his  hands.  Turn  where  you  will,  my 
father,  you  may  pick  up  assassins  like 
pebbles  in  a  river's  bed.  Aye,  it  is  a 
pretty  place — a  place  for  prayer  and 
not  for  jest." 

124 


"The  Little  Huguenot" 


Beads  of  perspiration  gathered 
thick  upon  the  Abbe's  brow  ;  his 
hands  trembled  so  that  he  could  not 
finger  his  rosary. 

"  Good  Pepin, "  said  he,  "  you  are 
my  friend  ;  I  have  confidence  in  you, 
Pepin  ;  you  will  lead  me  out  of 
this." 

"Aye,  though  Beelzebub  himself 
stood  in  the  path.  Courage,  Mon- 
sieur 1'Abbe,  do  you  hear  the  wolves 
— Dieu,  what  throats  they  have  !" 

Pepin  had  more  than  a  suspicion 
that  "  the  wolves"  were  only  watch- 
dogs howling  at  the  moon,  but  he 
saw  no  reason  to  enlighten  the  now 
trembling  Abbe.  For  the  matter  of 
that,  he  had  little  stomach  himself 
for  the  ugly  copse  which  they  were 
entering  ;  and  would  have  given  a 
half  of  his  wage  to  have  been  in  his 
bed  again.  He  had  spoken  no  more 
than  the  truth  when  he  said  that  the 
near  woods  were  a  haven  for  cut- 
throats and  brigands  ;  and  guide  that 
he  was,  he  would  not  willingly  have 
fallen  into  their  hands.  Truly,  this 
125 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


lumbering  Abbe  was  a  burden  to 
him  ;  nor  could  he  at  the  first  think 
of  any  plan  by  which  he  might  rid 
himself  of  his  company.  And  still 
thinking  upon  it,  he  plunged  into 
the  darkness  of  the  copse. 

"  Oh  blessed  Thaddeus,  Linus, 
Cletus,  Clement,  Xystus,  Cornelius, 
pray  for  me  this  night  !"  murmured 
the  Abbe",  while  his  mule  stumbled 
in  the  dark  place,  and  the  hoofs  of 
th,e  beast  squelched  in  the  mud  of 
the  bog.  "  Merciful  Heaven,  that  I 
should  have  left  my  bed  for  this  !" 

"  Aye,  that's  it,"  chimed  in  Pepin, 
"  if  we  had  not  left  our  beds  !  God 
knows  where  ( we  shall  next  stretch 
ourselves — in  yonder  bog,  perchance, 
if  your  saints  are  sleeping.  And  we 
shall  have  company  too,  my  father. 
Did  you  hear  that  cry  ?  Put  me  in 
the  pillory  if  that  was  the  night 
bird's  voice." 

"  Then  what  was  it,  Pepin  ?" 

"Corbleu!    what    was    it?      Some 
devil  of  the  woods  abroad  for  all  I 
know.     Oh,  it  is  a  pretty  place." 
126 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


The  Abbe's  teeth  were  chattering 
audibly  ;  the  cold  had  chilled  his 
very  marrow  ;  the  mud  was  thick 
upon  his  cassock  ;  his  face  was  blue 
and  bleeding. 

"  Pepin,"  said  he  at  last  in  his  des- 
peration, "  lead  me  to  some  house. 
I  can  go  no  further.  I  care  not 
where  it  is,  or  in  whose  company  I 
lie.  Take  me  where  you  will.  I 
must  sleep." 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  pitiful  enough 
to  have  drawn  tears  from  the  rock  ; 
but  the  cunning  guide  had  no  heart 
for  his  situation.  Pepin  heard  only 
an  appeal  which  gave  him  an  excuse 
for  turning  once  more  from  the  way  ; 
and  the  opportunity  fell  in  well  with 
his  plans. 

"  To  a  house,  my  father  !  Oh, 
you  could  ask  me  nothing  that  I 
would  do  so  gladly.  To  a  house  ! 
Mother  of  God,  I  know  an  honest  fel- 
low not  half  a  league  from  here  who 
will  answer  to  our  knock  with  a  bed 
of  moss  and  a  cup  of  wine  which  a 
prince  bishop  might  drink.  Courage, 
127 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


monsieur,  courage  !  You  are  at  the 
end  of  your  troubles.  Once  past 
yonder  copse,  wherein  there  may  lie 
perhaps  a  hundred  rogues,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  wolves,  I  will  venture 
my  head  on  your  safety.  Only  have 
a  little  patience." 

He  turned  his  horse  quickly  at  the 
saying,  but  so  clumsy  was  the  move- 
ment that  his  lantern  was  extin- 
guished by  it ;  and  there  was  now 
but  one  light  remaining.  The  wood 
to  which  they  had  come  was  like  a 
patch  of  virgin  forest,  a  maze  of 
climbing  plant  and  creeper,  of  black- 
thorn and  briar,  of  bog  and  bramble. 
So  thick  was  the  undergrowth  that 
man  might  have  been  treading  it  for 
the  first  time  ;  so  black  were  the 
pools  that  they  seemed  to  be  the 
waste  waters  of  Styx-like  rivers,  hid- 
den in  the  caverns  below  the  hills. 
Game  swarmed  here  ;  boars  crashed 
through  the  branches  ;  foxes  sneaked 
across  the  bridle-path  ;  birds,  dis- 
turbed at  roost,  rose  up  with  hissing 
cries  and  loud  flapping  of  their  wings. 
128 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


Over  all  was  the  intense  darkness  of 
the  forest,  night  at  her  zenith,  the 
supremity  of  solitude  and  of  nature. 

Any  other  man  but  Pepin  would 
have  been  lost  beyond  hope  in  this 
labyrinth  ;  but  the  guide  knew  the 
forest  as  he  knew  his  own  face.  The 
very  darkness  of  the  way  inspired 
him.  He  turned  gaily  from  the  path 
he  had  struck  at  the  first,  and  riding 
as  it  were  straight  towards  a  gloomy 
bog  whose  shallow  waters  caught  a 
leaden  glow  of  the  moon's  beams,  he 
encouraged  the  bewildered  Abbe  to 
new  efforts. 

"  Well  done,  monsieur,  well  done," 
he  cried  ;  "a  half  a  league  ridden 
like  that  and  you  shall  smack  your 
lips  over  a  wine-cup.  Oh,  was  there 
ever  such  an  idea  !  That  you  should 
ask  me  to  lead  you  to  a  house  ! 
Blood  of  the  martyrs,  you  bear  your- 
self bravely." 

"  Is  it  very  far,  Pepin  ?"  asked  the 
Abbe,  in  a  very  weak  voice. 

"  The   matter  of  a  league   and   a 
half,  as  I  told  you,  my  father." 
129 


The  Little  Huguenot." 


"You  said  half-a-league,  rascal," 
cried  the  Abbe. 

"  What,  do  you  think  that  I  lie  ?" 
exclaimed  Pepin,  stopping  his  horse 
suddenly. 

"  The  good  God  forbid,"  stam- 
mered the  Abbe  ;  "  only  take  me  to  a 
house,  and  I  will  forgive  you  all." 

Pepin  was  not  to  be  appeased  so 
easily. 

"  Hark  ye,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,"  said 
he,  "  another  word  like  that  and 
I  leave  you  to  pace  the  three 
leagues " 

"  Three  leagues,  del!" 

"  As  I  said — three  leagues.  If  you 
know  the  road  so  well,  my  father,  I 
will  even  follow  the  path  at  your 
mule's  tail." 

The  Abbe  shivered  at  the  idea. 

"  Saints  and  angels  soften  the 
heart  of  this  guide,"  he  muttered. 

They  had  now  come  to  the  slope  of 
the  wood  upon  the  border  of  the 
dirty  bog.  Pepin's  horse,  which  had 
trodden  the  path  often,  went  down 
fearlessly  to  the  water,  but  the  Abbe's 
130 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


mule  was  in  no  mood  for  the  venture, 
jibbing  at  it  and  sliding  down  at 
length  with  his  forefeet  set  out  as  an 
advance  guard. 

"  This  way,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  this 
way,"  cried  Pepin  ;  "oh,  what  a 
beast  to  carry  the  body  of  a  holy 
priest.  I  would  not  hire  him  for  a 
German  mountebank.  The  ford  is 
here,  my  father.  Oh,  have  a 
care  !" 

The  warning  was  well  meant,  but 
too  late  to  be  of  any  service  to  the 
Abbe,  whose  mule  tripped  suddenly 
upon  the  edge  of  the  black  ditch  and 
shot  its  rider  far  out  into  the  stream. 
For  one  long  minute  the  Abbe  floun- 
dered wildly  in  the  mud.  Then  he 
snatched  at  the  low  branch  of  an  over- 
hanging oak — and  so  drew  himself 
up,  all  bedraggled  and  half-suffo- 
cated, to  a  haven  of  refuge  among 
the  boughs. 

"  Pepin,  Pepin  !"  he  gasped  ; 
"  oh,  help  me  !  I  am  dying,  Pepin  ! 
Dieu,  what  cold,  what  suffering  !" 

But  Pepin  was  already  riding  away 
131 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


through  the  wood  on  the  opposite 
bank. 

"  Patience,  a  little  patience,  holy 
father,"  cried  he,  "  I  go  to  get  help  ; 
the  good  God  guard  you  until  I  re- 
turn." 

"  May  all  the  devils  of  hell  go  with 
you  !"  shouted  the  Abbe. 

And  thus  it  was  that  when  dawn 
came,  a  forester  observed  the  strange 
spectacle  of  a  venerable  Abbe  saying 
his  prayers  in  the  bough  of  a  tree. 


132 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DE  GUYON  HEARS  THE  NEWS. 

THE  king  had  been  at  the  chateau 
of  Francis  two  days  without  making 
up  his  mind  about  de  Guyon.  It 
was  the  evening  of  Monday,  and  he 
had  put  the  lieutenant  under  arrest 
at  midnight  on  Saturday  ;  being  then 
much  troubled  at  the  letter  which  the 
Abbe  Gondy  had  sent  to  him,  and 
not  at  all  sure  what  lay  behind  the 
musketeer's  duplicity.  "Fie!"  said 
he,  "  I  will  bring  this  little  witch  to 
the  palace  though  I  carry  her,  as  she 
asks  ;  and  as  for  this  booby,  if  he  has 
been  making  love  to  her,  I  will  hang 
him." 

Worn  by  thirty  years  of  uninter- 
rupted debauchery,  grown  feeble, 
seeking  new  pleasures  for  a  jaded  ap- 
petite, easily  provoked  to  anger  or  to 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


suspicion,  roundly  hated  in  all  France, 
the  "  Well-Beloved"  was  in  no  mood 
to  bear  with  any  patience  the  affront 
which  had  been  put  upon  him.  For 
more  than  a  year  now,  the  strange 
creed,  in  some  part  Protestant,  in 
some  part  Republican,  in  some  part 
ascetic,  which  Gabrielle  de  Vernet 
had  preached  at  the  Chateau  aux 
Loups  had  been  a  by-word  and  a  jest 
among  the  wits  of  the  Court.  The 
amiable  Madame  de  Boufflers  had 
risen  to  her  finest  flights  of  humour 
when  discussing  it  ;  Madame  Doublet 
de  Persan  had  died  with  a  lie  about 
it  on  her  lips.  While,  on  the  one 
hand,  the  evil-minded  shrugged  their 
shoulders,  evilly  implying  that  some- 
thing more  than  mere  spirituality  lay 
behind  the  asceticism  of  the  little 
Huguenot  ;  on  the  other  hand  were 
many  to  whisper  in  the  king's  ear 
tales  of  the  fascination  which  she  ex- 
ercised upon  those  about  her,  and  of 
the  indisputable  beauty  of  which  she 
was  the  possessor.  Goaded  by  the 
incessant  chatter  to  the  point  of  ac- 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


tive  curiosity,  Louis  had  determined 
to  see  the  girl  for  himself,  and  to 
hear  from  her  own  lips  that  apo- 
calypse with  which  the  people  cred- 
ited her.  No  doubt  he  contemplated 
with  content  the  subjection  of  so 
much  morality  and  vaunted  right- 
eousness to  the  perils  of  the  Court  ; 
no  doubt  his  real  purpose  was  deep, 
and  linked  closely  to  his  lust.  In 
any  case,  it  boded  no  good  to  her 
most  concerned,  nor  was  it  made 
weaker  by  her  obstinacy.  "  I  will 
send  a  troop  of  horse  for  her,  and 
burn  her  chapel  about  her  ears,"  he 
cried  once  in  a  rage.  Sixty  years  of 
life  had  not  taught  him  patience. 

In  truth,  it  was  Gabrielle  de  Ver- 
net's  refusal  that  set  the  fires  of 
smouldering  passion  aflame.  He 
said  that  she  should  boast  of  her 
righteousness  no  longer  ;  should  be- 
come the  sport  of  those  very  men  and 
\vomen  at  whom  she  had  pointed  her 
finger.  And  if  she  had  thoughts  of 
the  lieutenant  who  had  so  bungled 
his  duty,  he  would  know  how7  to  con- 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


duct  the  affair  to  a  pretty  conclusion. 
In  which  spirit,  he  kept  de  Guyon  a 
prisoner  in  a  sunless  room  near  the 
Cour  Ovale,  and  denied  to  him  even 
an  account  of  that  crime  which  had 
robbed  him  in  a  moment  of  his  sword 
and  of  his  love-dreams. 

On  the  morning  of  the  Monday, 
Louis  rode  abroad  in  the  forest  in 
the  company  of  the  Grand  Falconer, 
the  Comte  de  Vaudreuil,  and  of  the 
Grand  Louvetier,  the  Comte  d'Haus- 
sonville.  He  had  come  to  the  palace 
quite  privately,  consoling  himself 
with  the  hope  that  the  little  Hugue- 
not would  be  there  to  amuse  him  ; 
and  in  her  absence  he  found  that 
time  was  his  enemy.  Indeed,  he 
spoke  of  returning  to  Versailles  on 
the  following  morning,  saying  to 
himself  that  Gabrielle  de  Vernet 
should  be  brought  there  publicly  as  a 
part  of  her  punishment.  At  the 
same  time,  he  would  sign  the  lettre  de 
cachet  which  should  send  his  amorous 
lieutenant  to  For-1'Eveque,  where  he 
would  have  the  leisure  to  consider 
136 


•'The  Little  Huguenot." 

what  sort  of  a  bargain  he  had  made 
for  himself. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  the  king 
dined  privately,  discarding  here  any 
of  that  publicity  which  he  observed 
unfailingly  at  Versailles.  He  went 
afterwards  to  the  orangery,  and  to 
the  park,  remaining  abroad  nearly 
until  sunset.  Meanwhile,  de  Guyon 
paced  the  dingy  room  in  the  Cour 
Ovale  ;  now  permitting  himself  to 
hope,  now  abandoning  himself  to  the 
gloomy  possibilities  which  crowded 
upon  his  mind.  Nor  could  the  hon- 
est fellow,  his  servant  Antoine,  in 
any  way  lead  him  to  that  sensible  dis- 
cussion of  his  position  which  alone 
might  lead  to  his  liberation.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  fate  had  opened 
his  eyes  to  the  sweet  vision  of  Ga- 
brielle  but  to  plague  him  ;  had  permit- 
ted him  to  dream,  that  the  awakening 
might  be  more  bitter.  In  the  soli- 
tude of  confinement,  he  recalled  her 
words,  her  humours,  her  angers,  her 
prettiness.  He  remembered  that  the 
touch  of  her  hand  had  sent  fire  leap- 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


ing  through  his  veins  ;  he  dwelt  on 
that  moment  when  he  had  held  her 
in  his  arms  and  had  known  the  su- 
preme ecstasy  of  life.  Yet  all  this 
was  of  the  past.  What  the  morrow 
would  be,  God  alone  could  tell. 

Towards  evening,  when  the  old 
oaks  were  casting  lengthening  shad- 
ows upon  the  lawns  by  the  lake,  and 
the  fish-pond  shone  like  a  burnished 
mirror,  and  all  the  statues  seemed  to 
sleep,  a  sudden  palaver  and  commo- 
tion in  the  court  without  recalled 
him  from  his  visions  to  the  realities 
in  the  Chateau  de  Fontainebleau. 
He  thought  at  the  first  that  they  had 
come  to  take  him  to  For-1'Eveque  or 
even  to  the  Pastille,  and  thus  to  end 
for  many  years  the  hopes  which  he 
treasured  so  diligently.  He  knew 
that  the  king  gave  short  shrift  to 
those  who  stood  between  him  and  his 
pleasures.  He  had  seen  many  an 
honest  man  snatched  from  life  by 
the  "  Well-Beloved's"  caprice  ;  had 
watched  the  quick  degradation  of 
many  a  woman  who  had  withstood 
138 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


his  desires.  And  he  had  begun  to 
believe  that  Louis  had  never  set  him- 
self to  any  purpose  with  more  deter- 
mination than  to  his  ensnarement  of 
Gabrielle  de  Vernet. 

From  the  narrow  windows  of  his 
room  in  the  White  Tower,  he  could 
see  nothing  of  that  which  was  hap- 
pening in  the  courtyard  of  the  cha- 
teau. But  he  heard  the  clatter  of 
hoofs  upon  the  stone  pavement,  and 
his  servant,  Antoine,  came  in  pres- 
ently looking  like  one  who  has  ne\vs 
upon  his  tongue.  Scarce  had  he 
passed  the  door  when  de  Guyon  be- 
gan to  question  him. 

"  Has  the  king  returned,  Antoine  ?" 
"  Ma  foi,  no,"  replied  the  other. 
"He  is  still  riding,  then?" 
"  He  is  in  the  orangery  with  the 
Comte  de  Buffon." 

"  Then  whose  horses  do  I  hear  ?" 
Antoine,  who  loved  the  lieutenant 
and  guessed  how  things   stood  with 
him,  avoided  the  question. 

"  There  is  talk  of  his  Majesty  rid- 
ing away  to-morrow,"  said  he. 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Ah  .'"  exclaimed  de  Guyon. 
"  Then  I  shall  know  to-morrow  what 
he  has  in  store  for  me." 

"  A  month  in  For-1'Eveque  at  the 
most,  mon  maitre — at  least,  that  is 
the  gossip  of  the  gallery." 

De  Guyon  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  And  after  that,  Antoine  ?" 

"  Your  sword  and,  perhaps,  a  com- 
mand. The  king  has  not  a  long 
memory,  monsieur  !" 

"You  think  so?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it  ;  and  now 
that  madame  has  come  here,  he  will 
soon  wish  her  at  the  chateau  again." 

"  Madame  !  to  whom  do  you  re- 
fer ?" 

"  Then  you  have  not  heard.  Ma- 
dame de  Vernet  rode  into  the  court- 
yard half-an-hour  ago." 

De  Guyon  swung  round  upon  his 
heel,  and  faced  his  servant. 

"  Antoine,"  cried  he,  "  what  tale 
is  this  ?" 

;<  Tale,  mon  maitre  ?" 

"  Certainly,  as  I  say — what  does  it 
mean  ?" 

140 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  It  is  no  tale  ;  madame  arrived  at 
the  chateau  as  I  came  by  the  Salle 
des  Gardes." 

"  You  do  not  jest  with  me  ?" 

"I— jest?    God  forbid  !" 

"  Then  she  is  here  ?" 

"  Without  doubt  she  is." 

"  And  the  king  knows  of  her  com- 
ing ?" 

"  They  say  that  he  will  sup  with 
her  to-night." 

"  They  lie  !     I  will  prevent  her." 

"  You  !  Oh,  but  you  forget ;  there 
is  a  guard  at  your  door." 

De  Guyon  sank  upon  a  bench  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  The 
idol  he  had  raised  up  seemed  to  come 
crashing  headlong  to  the  ground. 
It  were  as  if  Gabrielle  had  been  torn 
from  his  arms  in  that  moment  ;  had 
been  snatched  from  him  while  her 
kisses  were  still  warm  upon  his  lips. 
When  Antoine  spoke  to  him  again, 
there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Courage,  my  master  ;  these  Hu- 
guenots are  all  alike,"  cried  the  hon- 
est fellow  ;  "  their  virtue  would  not 
141 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


fill  a  nut.  Diable !  They  have  the 
clothes  of  a  nun  and  the  heart  of  a 
grisette  !  What  a  pity  that  you 
should  trouble  yourself  with  their 
affairs." 

De  Guyon  did  not  answer  him. 
He  was  wrestling  silently  with  his 
overwhelming  despair  —  contrasting 
the  Gabrielle  of  the  Chateau  aux 
Loups  with  the  woman  who  of  her 
own  will  had  come  to  sup  with  the 
king  at  Fontainebleau.  There  was  a 
time  when  he  had  said  that  he  was 
not  worthy  to  raise  her  hand  to  his 
lips.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  be- 
lieve in  her  pretty  platitudes  !  She 
was  as  the  others — not  better,  no 
worse.  And  yet  the  memory  of  that 
moment  when  he  had  held  her  in  his 
arms  was  not  to  be  blotted  out.  He 
would  have  given  half  the  years  re- 
maining to  him  to  know  that  the 
news  which  Antoine  brought  was 
false.  There  were  even  prayers  upon 
his  lips  for  her  by  whom  he  had  been 
taught  to  pray. 


142 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE    APPARITION. 

THE  news  that  Gabrielle  de  Vernet 
had  presented  herself  at  the  palace 
was  brought  to  the  king  when  he  was 
with  Buffon  in  the  orangery.  He 
heard  it  with  a  laugh  that  was  half  a 
sneer  ;  and  yet  with  no  little  satis- 
faction. 

"  Ha  !"  said  he,  "  so  we  shall  not 
have  to  carry  the  little  witch  through 
the  forest.  That  booby  of  a  lieuten- 
ant has  been  lying  to  me.  I  shall 
know  how  to  settle  his  affair." 

The  reflection  was  pleasing  to  him. 
Of  all  hurts,  Louis  resented  most  any 
hurt  to  his  dignity,  and  he  could  but 
regard  this  sudden  face  about  as  a 
direct  act  of  homage  from  a  pretty 
woman. 

'  You  have  conducted  madame  to 
her  apartment  ?"  he  asked. 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  She  is  lodged  above  the  Porte 
Doree,  sire." 

"  That  is  well  done,  we  shall  sup 
there — let  the  orders  for  to-morrow 
be  cancelled.  We  shall  rest  here 
some  days." 

The  man  withdrew,  and  the  "  Well- 
Beloved"  returned  to  his  apartments 
in  the  Salle  des  Chasses.  The  com- 
ing of  the  little  Huguenot  had  altered 
all  his  plans,  and  blotted  from  his 
mind  that  resentment  he  felt  towards 
her.  She  would  amuse  him,  at  any 
rate,  he  said,  and  it  would  be  a  new 
thing  to  make  love  to  a  woman  who 
had  professed  piety  and  a  certain 
vague  but  polite  republicanism.  He 
could  find  in'  the  fact  of  her  arrival 
nothing  but  the  surrender  of  herself 
to  his  wish,  the  abnegation  of  that 
creed  which  had  made  the  Chateau 
aux  Loups  so  fine  a  theme  of  mockery 
at  the  palace.  And  being  beyond  all 
things  a  vain  man,  his  vanity  was  fed 
by  this  conquest  of  scruples,  as  it  had 
never  been  fed  by  all  the  debaucheries 
of  an  infamous  life. 
144 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


It  was  full  dusk  when  Gabrielle 
found  herself  at  last  in  her  chamber 
above  the  Porte  Doree.  She  had 
been  lodged  in  the  suite  of  rooms 
which  adjoined  the  apartments  at  one 
time  occupied  by  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon  ;  and  to  these  she  came  when 
the  last  shimmer  of  the  sun  had  van- 
ished from  the  lake,  and  the  first 
breath  of  night  stirred  the  great  oaks 
in  the  park.  Though  she  bore  her- 
self bravely,  wearing  that  happy 
smile  which  was  the  fairest  emblem 
of  her  girlhood,  none  the  less  did  her 
courage  often  fail  her  as  she  realised 
her  environment  and  the  unspeakable 
dangers  into  which  she  had  plunged. 
There  were  moments  when  she  re- 
proached herself  in  that  she  had  lis- 
tened to  the  Jesuit,  and  had  staked 
all  upon  this  throw  ;  other  moments 
when  she  asked  if  such  a  love  as  she 
felt  for  de  Guyon  was  not  in  itself  an 
unholy  thing,  a  concession  to  the  hu- 
manity in  her,  and  a  negation  to  those 
high  spiritual  ideals  she  had  served. 
She  feared  in  some  vague  way  that 

i45 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


her  presence  at  Fontainebleau  would 
make  her  unworthy  of  the  man  for 
whom  she  had  dared  so  much  ;  she 
shuddered  when  she  remembered 
that  she  must  meet  the  king  pres- 
ently, and  that  she  was  alone.  She 
had  seen  nothing  of  the  Jesuit  since 
he  had  left  her  at  the  gates  of  her 
own  home.  She  had  come  to  Fon- 
tainebleau with  her  old  servant, 
Dominique,  and  four  lusty  yeomen 
for  escort.  But  these  were  now 
lodged  in  another  court  of  the  pal- 
ace ;  the  rooms  she  occupied  were 
full  of  gaudy  splendours,  yet  of  sug- 
gestions of  isolation  and  of  loneliness. 
Her  quick  imagination  peopled  them 
with  spectres  of  the  past — with  the 
shapes  of  the  men  and  women  who 
had  enjoyed  here  their  brief  hours 
of  indulgence  and  of  pleasure.  She 
heard  in  fancy  the  laughter  of  the 
dead  ;  the  cries  of  those  who  had 
suffered  haunted  her  ;  turn  where 
she  would  the  air  seemed  full  of 
warnings. 

With  such  fancies  was   her   brain 
146 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


busy  ;  but  to  Dominique,  observing 
her  closely  and  troubled  by  many  ap- 
prehensions, she  betrayed  none  of 
her  fears.  Watch  her  as  he  would, 
he  was  confronted  only  by  the  Ga- 
brielle  of  the  chateau,  by  the  Ga- 
brielle  of  the  masks  and  fetes,  of  the 
hard  rides  and  the  merry  picnics  in 
the  woods.  It  may  have  been  that 
he  would  have  seen  her  rather  as  the 
Gabrielle  of  the  chapel  and  the  de- 
vout retreat  ;  but  it  was  something 
to  know  that  she  had  lost  nothing  of 
her  courage,  that  the  mistress  of  the 
Chateau  aux  Loups  would  carry  her- 
self well,  even  before  the  king.  With 
which  thought,  the  old  man  lit  the 
candles  in  the  great  gilt  scones,  and 
began  to  draw  the  curtains  over  the 
long  windows.  He  felt  that  he  alone 
was  there  to  protect  her,  and  he 
would  do  his  duty. 

"  My  lady  will  wish  to  rest  until 
supper  is  served  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Indeed,  no,  Dominique,  my  lady 
would  very  much  like  to  know  where 
she  is  first." 

i47 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Is  she  not  in  the  Chateau  de  Fon- 
tainebleau  ?" 

"  Assuredly,  she  is  in  the  Chateau 
de  Fontainebleau,  though  when  that 
is  said,  she  is  still  very  ignorant 
Look  you,  Dominique,  was  there  ever 
a  passage  with  so  many  doors,  or  a 
room  so  dark  ?  I  am  sure  this  must 
be  the  place  where  Monaldeschi  died. 
There  are  ghosts  in  the  air." 

She  shuddered  visibly.  The  old  man 
crossed  himself,  and  drew  the  curtains. 

"  We  are  on  a  strange  errand," 
said  he  ;  "  God  send  us  home  again 
without  hurt." 

Gabrielle  said  nothing.  She  was 
thinking  how  full  of  gloom  the  room 
was,  now  that  it  was  lit  by  the  flicker- 
ing light  of  tapers. 

"  Dominique,"  cried  she,  after  a 
pause,  "  you  gave  them  my  message, 
that  I  would  be  served  here  only  by 
you  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  lady." 

"  And  they  said— 

"  That  your  wish  was  the  king's 
while  you  were  in  the  chateau." 
148 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

She  laughed  a  little  ironically  ;  and 
standing  by  one  of  the  curtains  he 
had  drawn,  she  began  to  play  with 
the  tassel  of  it.  The  next  question 
that  she  set  the  old  man  was  put  in 
hesitation — 

"Dominique,''  she  asked,  "have 
you  heard  of  my  friend  Monsieur  de 
Guyon  ?" 

"  Truly,  I  have  ;  he  is  the  king's 
guest  in  an  apartment  not  a  hundred 
paces  from  here." 

"  And  they  do  not  speak  of  the 
king's  intention  to  send  him  away  ?" 

"  The  talk  is  that  he  leaves  at 
daybreak  for  a  lodging  in  For-l'Ev- 
eque." 

"  We  have  come  in  time.  Think 
you,  Dominique,  that  it  would  be 
strange  if  the  king  changed  his 
mind  ?" 

He  raised  his  eyes  quickly  to  hers. 

"  He  will  change  it  if  madame 
wills." 

"  And  I  am  going  to  do  so." 

Dominique  shook  his  head. 

"  She  is  blind,  and  she  is  a  child," 
149 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

he  said  to  himself  ;  "  may  God  help 
us  this  night." 

"  You  have  learnt  nothing  of  Pere 
Cavaignac  since  you  have  been 
here?"  continued  the  girl  after  an- 
other pause  in  which  the  old  man 
kept  his  eyes  steadily  upon  her. 

"  Ma  foi  !  of  Pere  Cavaignac.  Do 
you  not  know  that  it  would  be  death 
to  him  to  show  his  face  ?" 

"  Yet  he  will  come." 

"He  will  come!  Dieu !  you  be- 
lieve that  ?" 

"  As  I  believe  that  you  are  talking 
to  me." 

"  And  you  are  relying  on  his 
help?" 

"  Entirely — he  is  my  only  friend." 

Dominique  turned  on  his  heel  with 
an  abruptness  foreign  to  his  usual 
deference.  "  This  craze  of  hers  has 
made  her  mad,"  said  he  ;  "  God  for- 
give me  for  setting  out  on  such  an 
affair." 

Craze  or  no  craze,  Gabrielle  con- 
tinued to  believe  that  the  Jesuit 
would  come  to  her  help.  Whence, 
150 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

or  by  what   means  or  at  what  mo- 
ment, she  knew  not  ;  none  the  less 
did  she  hope.     Never  in  her  life  had 
she  appealed  to  him  in  vain  ;  never 
had  she  heard  of  one  whom  he  had 
refused    to    befriend.       Almost    her 
earliest  memories  were  those  of  the 
glades  of  the  forest  which  this  strange 
mystic  used  to  roam.     She  remem- 
bered  his   surpassing   love   for  chil- 
dren,  his   gentleness,   his   unceasing 
devotion.      When   she  was  a   child, 
she  had  accounted  it  a  great  day  if 
she   might   spend   the    hours    in   his 
company  ;    when   she   had    come    to 
womanhood  she  was  uplifted  by  his 
word  and  his  example,  made  strong 
in  his  strength.     There  had  been  no 
trouble   of   hers   which    he   had   not 
shared  ;  no  joy  at  which  he  had  not 
rejoiced.     And  he  had  not  rebuked 
now  when  this  new  love  had  come 
into  her  life,   this  quick  conquering 
passion  for  one  of  whom  she  knew 
nothing    but    that    she    loved    him. 
Nay,   he  had  bidden  her  go  to  the 
palace,  had  told  her  that  where  she 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


was  there  would  he  be  also.  She  be- 
lieved his  word — and  this  was  well, 
since  upon  it  alone  was  her  hope 
built.  To  no  other  at  Fontainebleau 
could  she  appeal  ;  never  was  a  wom- 
an more  utterly  alone. 

This  sense  of  loneliness  was,  in 
truth,  her  despair  as  the  minutes 
passed  and  the  moment  for  the  king's 
coming  approached.  Though  she 
had  regarded  Louis's  intention  to 
sup  with  her  as  an  adventure  which 
should  provoke  laughter  rather  than 
alarm,  the  presence  of  lackeys,  who 
began  to  set  the  table  for  the  repast, 
recalled  to  her  the  reality  of  it  all, 
and  perhaps,  the  danger.  If  the 
Jesuit  was  not  to  fail  her,  at  any  rate 
he  had  long  deferred  his  coming.  It 
was  then  half-past  seven,  and  the 
king  was  to  sup  with  her  at  eight  ; 
she  began  to  contemplate  the  possi- 
bility of  having  to  bear  the  whole 
brunt  of  his  company  ;  of  having  to 
defend  herself  in  an  encounter  which 
many  an  older  woman  might  have 
152 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


dreaded.  The  thought  of  de  Guyon 
alone  nerved  her  to  the  idea.  She 
had  come  to  Fontainebleau  for  love 
of  him — for  love  of  him  would  she 
combat  all  the  shame  that  might  be 
put  upon  her. 

Soon  after  her  arrival  at  the  palace, 
she  had  changed  her  riding-dress  of 
green  for  a  black  gown,  decked  out 
with  lace  at  the  throat  and  arms,  but 
sombre  when  contrasted  with  the 
gaudy  splendours  about  her.  Her 
only  ornament  was  a  little  diamond 
cross  upon  her  breast  ;  but  her  beauty 
was  enhanced  by  the  simplicity,  and 
it  stood  out  radiantly  when  she  ap- 
pealed to  Dominique  at  a  quarter  to 
eight,  the  smile  still  about  her  lips, 
but  her  hands  trembling  beyond  con- 
cealment. 

"You  have  no  news  of  Pere  Ca- 
vaignac  yet  ?"  she  asked. 

"  You  still  believe  that  he  will 
come,  my  lady  ?" 

She  had  begun  to  doubt,  but  of  her 
doubts  she  would  not  speak. 
153 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

"  Of  course  he  will  come  !"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Has  he  not 
promised  me  ?" 

' '  Parbleu  !  and  you  think  that  he 
would  show  his  face  in  the  king's 
palace.  Ma  foi,  what  an  idea  !" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  will  find 
a  way.  He  knows  this  chateau  as  no 
other  man  knows  it.  There  is  not  a 
room  of  which  he  has  not  the  secrets. 
Oh,  I  am  sure  that  he  will  find  a 
way,  Dominique." 

"And  if  he  does?" 

"  I  shall  have  a  friend." 

"  Whom  the  guard  will  seize  so 
soon  as  he  opens  his  lips  to  declare 
himself.  A  pretty  friend,  my  lady." 

She  had  not  thought  of  this — of  the 
weakness  of  the  priest  wearing  the 
mantle  of  strength  in  her  presence, 
because  of  that  child-like  belief  of 
which  she  was  the  victim.  But  when 
the  old  servant  spoke  of  it,  the  scales 
fell  from  her  eyes,  and  for  the  first 
time  she  became  conscious  of  her 
own  helplessness. 

"  Dominique  !"      she      exclaimed, 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

"  I  have  done  wrong  in  coming 
here." 

"As  I  said  upon  the  way,  ma- 
dame." 

If  he  had  offered  to  her  any  sym- 
pathy, or  had  spoken  a  comforting 
word,  perchance  her  courage  would 
have  stood  strong  to  the  encounter  ; 
but  he  remembered  only  that  an 
unreasoning  impulse  had  brought 
her  to  the  palace,  and  that  she  must 
pay  the  penalty.  In  which  mood  he 
fell  to  his  work  again,  and  she  was 
left  in  the  great  room,  with  her  lone- 
liness and  her  fears  for  company. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  fell  upon 
her  knees  in  the  dark  alcove  of  the 
window,  to  pray  that  strength  might 
be  given  to  her. 

Though  the  neighbouring  room 
was  lit  by  the  light  of  a  hundred 
tapers,  and  the  mirrors  caught  up 
and  scattered  the  bountiful  rays,  her 
o\vn  apartment  had  been  left  almost 
in  darkness.  She  heard  no  longer 
the  buzz  of  lackeys'  voices  or  the 

155 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


ringing  of  glasses  ;  yet  she  could 
smell  the  perfume  of  the  roses  upon 
the  table,  and  she  knew  that  supper 
was  served,  and  that  any  minute 
might  bring  her  face  to  face  with  the 
man  who  was  moved  by  no  impulse 
but  the  impulse  of  his  pleasure  ;  who 
had  never  spoken  a  noble  word,  or 
done  an  unselfish  deed.  The  reality 
fed  the  fears  which  now  possessed 
her  ;  she  could  have  cried  aloud  for 
pity  and  for  help  ;  she  thought  even 
of  flight,  yet  remembered  her  lover 
and  prayed  the  more.  And  her  an- 
guish was  at  the  zenith  when  the  an- 
swer came. 

Swift  and  sudden  the  apparition 
was,  coming  like  a  phantom  out  of 
the  shadows  of  the  room.  She  heard 
no  step  ;  no  door  turned  upon  its 
hinges  ;  no  footfall  broke  the  silence  ; 
yet  was  she  conscious  that  one  stood 
beside  her,  that  his  eyes  were  watch- 
ing her,  that  her  faith  was  justified. 
Without  a  word,  she  turned  to  him  ; 
the  tears  she  had  conquered  gushed 
forth  again  and  fell  upon  his  out- 
156 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


stretched    hand  ;    she   clung   to  him 

like  a  child  that  has  found  a  father. 
"  I  knew  you  would  come  to  me," 

she  cried  at  last. 

"  And  I  am  here,  my  child." 

"  You  will  not  leave  me  now  ?" 

"  Leave  you — God  forbid  !" 

"  And  you  will  help  my  lover  ?" 

"  I  come  to  set  him  free." 

She  would  have  thanked  him,  but 

he  raised  his  hand  warningly,  while 

in  the  court  without  a  bell  began  to 

strike  the  hour. 

"  Hark  !"  said  he,   "  that  is  eight 

o'clock.     There  is  no  time  for  words. 

Do  only  that  which  I  bid  you." 
He  stepped  to  the  oaken  wall  upon 

the  opposite  side  of  the  room,   and 

pressing  his  hand  upon  the  glass  of  a 

small   mirror,   he  opened  a  panel   in 

the   wainscoting,    and    beckoned    to 

her. 

"  Three   doors   from    here    to    the 

right    is    the    chapel   of    St.    Louis. 

Wait  there  until  you  are  summoned." 
The  girl  saw  nothing  but  a  dark 

and  gloomy  passage,   but  she  went 
157 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


readily  at  his  words,  and  when  the 
echo  of  her  steps  had  died  away  he 
closed  the  panel.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment, the  door  in  the  second  cham- 
ber was  shut  gently. 

The  "  Well-Beloved"  had  come  to 
sup. 


158 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    KING    SUPS. 

THE  Jesuit  wore  his  cassock,  and  a 
black  cape  about  his  shoulders.  His 
step  was  like  the  step  of  a  cat,  as  he 
crossed  the  room  and  stooped  in  the 
shadow  of  an  angle,  wherefrom  he 
could  observe  the  king.  Never  in 
his  life  had  he  embarked  upon  a  ven- 
ture of  which  the  outcome  was  so 
doubtful  ;  never  had  he  more  need 
of  his  mind  and  of  his  courage.  One 
cry  uttered  by  Louis,  one  false  step 
of  his  own,  and  the  end  would  be 
swift.  He  stood  alone  to  fight  the 
battle  of  the  woman  ;  and  even  while 
he  waited  he  remembered  that  the 
flesh  of  Damiens  had  been  torn  with 
red-hot  pincers,  that  the  body  of 
Ravaillac  had  been  burst  asunder  to 
make  a  Parisian  holiday. 

159 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


Motionless,  his  body  bent  forward, 
his  right  hand  raised,  his  left  hand 
closed  upon  the  hilt  of  a  dagger,  the 
priest  watched  the  king.  The 
"  Well-Beloved,"  uncertain  as  he 
may  have  been  of  the  welcome  which 
Gabrielle  de  Vernet  would  give  to 
him,  had  determined  that  there 
should  be  no  spectator  of  it.  His 
few  attendants  had  left  him  at  the 
end  of  the  gallery  which  gave  access 
to  the  Salles  des  Chasses.  The  lack- 
eys had  done  their  work  when  they 
had  spread  the  table.  There  was 
only  the  old  man  Dominique  in  the 
chamber,  and  he  was  dismissed  with 
a  word.  Louis  thought  himself  to 
be  quite  alone,  and  in  this  expecta- 
tion he  entered  the  supper-room  with 
a  brisk  step. 

He  had  expected  to  find  Gabrielle 
de  Vernet  waiting  there  to  receive 
him,  and  when  he  beheld  the  empty 
room,  he  stood  for  a  moment  uncer- 
tain how  to  act.  Old  as  he  was  and 
wildly  as  he  had  lived,  he  yet  pre- 
served that  superb  dignity  of  bearing 
1 60 


"The  Little  Huguenot" 


which  had  been  his  one  merit  for 
more  than  twenty  years.  It  was  pos- 
sible still  to  speak  of  him  as  a  hand- 
some man  ;  and  now  when  the  light 
fell  full  upon  his  coat  of  white  and 
silver,  and  the  jewels  upon  his  vest 
gave  back  radiating  beams,  there  was 
an  air  of  kingship  and  of  grace  about 
him  which  was  an  ill  contrast  to  the 
purpose  of  his  coming. 

Standing  for  a  spell  by  the  bril- 
liantly-lighted table,  the  king  listened 
for  any  sound  or  sign  of  the  woman 
from  whom  he  had  expected  greet- 
ing. When  none  was  given  to  him,  a 
curious  smile  began  to  play  upon  his 
face,  and  he  crossed  to  the  door  of 
the  inner  room,  peering  into  the 
gloom  of  it. 

"  The  little  witch  is  pleased  to  play 
with  me,"  he  muttered  ;  "  well,  the 
game  is  amusing,  and  we  shall  see." 

The  smile  left  his  face,  and  he 
puckered  up  his  lips,  biting  them 
while  he  debated  upon  the  situation. 
So  close  to  the  priest  was  he  then 
that  he  could  have  touched  him  with 
161 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

his  hand  ;  but  he  had  eyes  only  for 
the  aureole  of  light  in  the  centre  of 
the  apartment,  and  at  that  he  gazed 
while  a  minute  passed.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  he  snapped  his  fingers  as 
though  an  idea  had  come  to  him,  and 
began  to  cross  the  room.  The  priest 
stepped  noiselessly  from  the  angle 
and  followed  him. 

Quite  convinced  now  that  if  he 
would  sup  with  Gabrielle  de  Vernet 
he  must  carry  her  to  the  table,  as  she 
had  asked,  the  king  crossed  the  sec- 
ond of  the  rooms  with  quick  steps, 
and  began  to  knock  upon  the  panel. 
He  was  answered  almost  at  the  first 
rap,  but  it  was  the  mocking  voice  of 
Pere  Cavaignac  which  he  heard. 

"  Enter,  sire,"  said  the  priest. 

Louis  turned  upon  his  heel  at  the 
words,  and  faced  the  Jesuit.  A  flush 
of  passion  was  upon  his  face,  an  oath 
upon  his  lips. 

"  Blood  of  the  Sacrament,  who  are 
you  ?"  he  asked. 

The   priest  opened    his   cape  and 
stepped  into  the  light. 
162 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  I  am  the  servant  of  Jesus,  Fran- 
£ois  Cavaignac,  at  one  time  known 
to  your  Majesty." 

There  were  few  of  the  Bourbons 
that  lacked  courage,  and  the  "  Well- 
Beloved"  was  not  among  their  num- 
ber. Though  the  presence  of  the 
Jesuit  had  already  struck  him  chill 
with  a  fear  he  could  not  define,  he  be- 
trayed himself  in  no  way. 

"  Well,"  said  he  with  a  fine  smile 
of  irony,  "  and  what  does  the  servant 
of  Jesus,  Fran9ois  Cavaignac,  want 
with  me  ?" 

The  priest  advanced  a  step. 

"  The  liberty  of  a  prisoner,  sire." 

Louis  retreated  as  the  other  ad- 
vanced until,  when  he  answered,  his 
back  was  against  the  door  upon 
which  he  had  knocked. 

"  Ha  !"  he  cried,  "  the  liberty  of  A 
prisoner.  And  his  name  is ?" 

"  A  lieutenant  of  your  Majesty's 
Musketeers,  Paul  de  Guyon." 

The  king's  face  flushed  with  pas- 
sion ;    the   hand    of    the  other   was 
trembling  beneath  his  robe. 
163 


"The  Little  Huguenot" 


"  Dog  of  a  priest,"  snarled  Louis, 
"  I  will  have  you  hanged  upon  the 
nearest  tree." 

"  Possibly,"  said  the  priest  in  a 
cold,  clear  voice,  "  but  your  Majesty 
would  be  the  first  to  die." 

"  How — you  threaten  me?" 

"  Decidedly — since  you  compel  it." 

The  king  sank  into  a  chair  with 
great  drops  of  perspiration  upon  his 
face.  The  priest  stood  immovable, 
motionless.  There  was  silence  be- 
tween them  for  many  minutes,  but 
Louis  was  the  first  to  speak  again. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "you  are  a 
pretty  jester,  friend.  Do  you  know 
that  I  can  have  you  torn  limb  from 
limb  by  a  word  spoken  from  those 
windows  ?" 

"  You  will  never  speak  it,  sire." 

"  Indeed,  but  it  shall  be  spoken 
now." 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  but  had  not 
made  a  step  when  the  hand  of  the  ec- 
clesiastic closed  upon  his  arm  with  an 
iron  grip. 

' '  Your  Majesty  wishes  still  to  live  ?' ' 
164 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Then  do  not  call  the  guard." 

"  What — you  proclaim  yourself  to 
be  an  assassin  ?" 

"  As  you  please — I  say,  do  not 
call  the  guard  to  find  your  body 
here." 

The  king  sank  back  into  the  chair 
trembling  in  all  his  limbs  ;  but  the 
priest  went  on  with  his  words. 

"  Sire,"  said  he,  "  if  you  fear,  you 
fear  because  of  yourself.  Give  me 
this  man's  freedom,  and  you  shall 
never  see  my  face  again." 

"  How  can  I  give  you  his  freedom 
since  you  threaten  me  ?" 

"  That  is  easily  done — there  are 
pens  and  ink  ;  a  line  from  your  Maj- 
esty  ' ' 

"  Which  you  will  carry  to  the  pris- 
oner." 

"  Nay,  but  which  my  servant  shall 
carry." 

' '  Your  servant !  You  are  not  alone, 
then." 

"  The  servants  of  Jesus  are  nevef 
alone,  sire." 

165 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  And  if  I  pardon  this  man — what 
then  ?" 

"  Your  clemency  for  my  mistress, 
Gabrielle  de  Vernet." 

"  What — you  are  a  friend  to  Hu- 
guenots ?" 

"  I  am  a  friend  to  Huguenots  such 
as  she  is." 

"  DieUj  man  ami,  you  risk  much  for 
your  friends." 

"What  matter,  since  I  befriend 
them.  Your  Majesty  will  sign  the 
paper." 

Louis  took  the  pen  in  his  hand. 
He  trembled  no  longer.  He  was 
thinking  that  when  the  door  was 
opened,  he  would  cry  for  help.  Once 
he  had  made  his  voice  heard,  he 
would  have  this  priest  flayed  alive. 
Never  should  such  a  vengeance  have 
been  known.  The  idea  pleased 
him.  He  wrote  a  few  lines  upon  the 
paper,  and  handed  them  to  Cavaig- 
nac. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  bring  me  your 
messenger." 

The  priest  read  the  paper  through. 
166 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

"  Your  Majesty  has  forgotten  my 
mistress,"  said  he. 

"Ha!  and  what  of  her  ?" 

"  That  she  may  leave  the  chateau 
immediately." 

The  king's  hand  trembled  ;  he  half 
raised  it  to  strike  the  motionless  fig- 
ure before  him.  Then  he  remem- 
bered his  idea,  and  wrote  the  order. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  where  is  your 
servant  ?" 

"  He  is  here,  sire." 

The  door  of  the  inner  room  opened 
as  the  Jesuit  spoke,  and  a  man  in  the 
scarlet  uniform  of  the  musketeers  sa- 
luted the  "  Well-Beloved."  So  sud- 
den was  his  coming,  that  the  king 
had  not  even  time  to  rise  from  his 
chair  before  the  door  was  shut  again. 

"  See,"  said  the  priest,  "the  ser- 
vants of  Jesus  are  never  alone,  sire." 

Louis  stared  at  the  musketeer  as  at 
an  apparition. 

"What!"  said  he,  "a  musketeer, 
too  ;  by  the  mass,  I  am  well  served." 

"  Your  Majesty  sent  for  me,"  cried 
the  trooper,  saluting  again. 
167 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  To  carry  this  order  for  the  release 
of  the  Lieutenant  de  Guyon,  and  for 
the  horses  of  Madame  de  Vernet, 
who  is  leaving  the  chateau  immedi- 
ately," cried  Cavaignac,  as  another 
oath  sprang  from  the  king's  lips. 

The  trooper  took  the  paper,  to 
which  the  priest  added  three  words 
of  his  own,  and  vanished  as  he  had 
come. 

"  Well,"  said  the  king,  "  and  what 
now?" 

"  That  your  Majesty  will  be  pleased 
to  sit  until  my  mistress  shall  have 
reached  the  forest." 

"  That  my  arm  may  not  reach 
her. ' ' 

"  Exactly,  sire." 

"And  then ?" 

"  I  shall  have  the  honour  to  kiss 
your  hand  for  the  last  time." 

Louis  laughed  ironically. 

"  To-morrow,  I  shall  settle  with 
you,"  said  he. 

"  As  your  Majesty  wills." 

The  voice  was  the  voice  of  a  man 
who  knew  no  emotions,  of  a  man  of 
168 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


iron.  Yet  could  Louis  have  searched 
the  heart  of  the  Jesuit,  courage  would 
have  rushed  upon  him  like  a  fresh- 
et. Apprehension,  racking  fear,  the 
thought  of  Gabrielle  soon  to  lie  in  de 
Guyon's  arms,  an  imagination  de- 
picting every  phase  of  torture  and  of 
suffering  that  might  be  his — all  these 
were  contesting  victory  with  the  out- 
ward calm  which  the  Jesuit  displayed. 
Yet  he  did  not  move  a  hand  while 
minutes  passed ;  the  great  clock  of  the 
chateau  struck  nine,  and  still  he  stood 
like  some  ghostly  shape  of  the  night. 
As  the  hour  struck,  the  king,  who 
had  warred  long  with  his  passion, 
found  himself  able  to  subdue  it  no 
longer.  Determined  that  he  would 
stake  all  upon  the  hazard,  he  sprang 
of  a  sudden  from  his  chair  and  ran  to 
the  window  of  the  room.  The  court 
without  echoed  his  alarm  ;  the  whole 
palace  seemed  to  awake  from  sleep. 
Armed  men  burst  into  the  room  where 
the  Jesuit  had  been  ;  attendants,  offi- 
cials, valets  pressed  one  upon  another 
in  the  gallery. 

I6q 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  The  priest — the  priest — death  to 
the  assassin — seize  the  priest  !" 

A  hundred  voices  took  up  the  cry. 
It  rang  through  court  and  cloister. 
It  seemed  to  fill  the  palace. 

But  when  the  search  was  made, 
there  was  no  man  that  could  put 
hands  upon  the  Jesuit. 

He  had  vanished  like  a  phantom. 


170 


CHAPTER  XV. 

EXODUS. 

JUNE  was  waxing  old,  and  the  ripe- 
ness of  the  summer  was  upon  the 
brown-burnt  forest.  Pools  had  be- 
come pits  for  lack  of  the  rains  ;  rich 
grasses  and  rare  blossoms  were  to  be 
gathered  in  their  beds.  The  sward 
had  lost  its  green,  and  the  shimmer 
of  the  relaxing  heat  searched  mead- 
ows and  glens  alike.  Even  the 
streams  flowed  drowsily,  and  the 
deer  herded  in  the  cool  of  the  dor- 
mant glades.  Night  had  no  gift  of 
her  breezes  ;  dawn  no  freshness  of 
her  sleep.  The  woodlanders  dreamed 
through  the  long  days  ;  desolation 
had  come  down  upon  the  hamlets. 

Towards  the  hour  of  sunset  on  the 
last  Sunday  of  the  month,  Pere  Ca- 
vaignac  stood  upon  a  spur  of  the  hill- 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


land  above  the  Chateau  aux  Loups. 
The  kine  in  the  meadows  were  then 
turning  to  the  water,  there  was  a 
certain  awakening  of  brute  life  in  all 
the  park  about  the  chateau.  But 
while  it  was  the  hour  for  vespers  and 
for  the  coming  of  village  folk,  the 
voice  of  man  was  not  to  be  heard.  A 
great  silence  reigned  in  all  the  gar- 
dens of  the  house.  No  smoke  rose 
from  its  chimneys  ;  the  gates  of  the 
courtyard  were  shut  ;  the  bells  in  the 
tower  no  longer  called  to  prayer  ;  the 
name  of  its  mistress  was  a  word  for 
whispers  in  all  the  country  round. 
The  home  of  "  the  little  Huguenot" 
was  a  home  to  her  no  more.  She  had 
gone  out  of  the  lives  of  the  people 
like  a  sun  that  had  set.  And  no  man 
was  so  bold  that  he  lifted  his  voice  to 
mourn  for  her. 

The  priest  stood  in  the  shelter  of 
the  thicket  and  looked  down  to  the 
belt  of  trees  girdling  about  the  cha- 
teau. There  were  moments  when  he 
thought  that  he  saw  the  flash  of  scar- 
let against  the  riper  green  of  the 
172 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

avenues  ;  other  moments  when  he 
heard  the  blast  of  a  horn  and  beheld 
a  musketeer  riding  forth  from  the 
gates.  The  man  struck  the  highway 
to  Paris,  and  was  lost  quickly  in  a 
cloud  of  powdering  dust.  Then  the 
desolation  was  supreme  once  more  ; 
and  all  the  gardens  seemed  to  sleep. 

Though  it  was  plain  that  nothing 
was  to  be  observed  from  the  place 
upon  the  hill's  brow,  the  Jesuit  con- 
tinued at  his  post  until  the  church 
bells  in  the  distant  village  were  chim- 
ing eight.,  and  the  dusk  had  come 
down  more  plenteously.  He  appear- 
ed to  be  awaiting  some  turn  of  events 
at  the  chateau  ;  and  when  the  half  of 
an  hour  had  passed,  he  was  justified. 
Again  the  gates  of  the  courtyard  were 
opened  ;  again  a  horseman  rode  forth. 
He  was  Pepin,  the  guide,  and  at  his 
heels  there  followed  the  Abbe  Gondy 
upon  his  mule,  and  the  old  servant, 
Dominique,  upon  his  feet,  leading 
another  mule  that  carried  the  bag- 
gage. In  this  order  the  little  caval- 
cade struck  the  hill-path,  and  came 


"The  Little  Huguenot.' 


on  towards  that  very  thicket  in  which 
the  priest  was  watching. 

It  was  near  to  being  dark  when  at 
last  the  three  arrived  at  the  hill  road. 
A  gloomier  company  never  set  foot 
in  the  forest,  nor  one  so  melancholy. 
Gone  was  the  fat  from  the  cheeks  of 
the  Abbe,  gone  was  the  smile  from 
the  face  of  Pepin.  The  old  servant 
walked  with  downcast  eyes  and  trem- 
bling lips.  He  looked  back  often  at 
the  home  he  loved — it  was  no  home 
to  him  now.  He  remembered  that 
every  brick  of  it,  every  path,  every 
tree,  every  glade  was  like  a  friend  to 
be  lost.  And  never  again  would  he 
behold  them. 

"  Saints  and  angels  defend  us  !" 
cried  the  Abbe  as  his  mule  entered 
the  glade  of  the  woods  ;  but  Pepin 
said — 

"  Blood  of  Bartholomew  !  there's 
a  man  that  lurks  amid  the  trees.  He 
has  eyes  for  your  pack,  my  father." 

"  Little  has  the  good  God  left  to 
me,"  said  the  Abbe  mournfully. 
"  Have  you  your  cudgel  ready  ?" 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Aye,  surely,  I  have.  But  by  the 
mass,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  I  would 
sooner  sing  a  dirge  than  cross  a  blade 
this  night.  Body  of  Paul  !  I  have 
the  plague  at  my  knees." 

"  Wouldst  that  thou  had  it  at  thy 
throat  for  a  brawling  rogue,"  mut- 
tered the  Abbe. 

They  rode  for  a  space  into  the 
heart  of  the  wood,  and  the  figure  in 
the  thicket  vanished  as  it  had  come. 

But  at  the  cross  of  the  path  it  ap- 
peared again,  and  stood  out  in  the 
waning  light. 

"  Gratias  agamus /"  exclaimed  the 
Abbe,  "  it  is  no  robber,  but  my  friend 
Cavaignac.  Oh,  blessed  be  God  that 
he  has  come  !" 

"  What,"  cried  Pepin,  "  the  dog  of 
a  Jesuit  !  Do  you  not  know,  my  fa- 
ther, there  are  a  thousand  gold  pieces 
upon  his  head  ?" 

"Fool,"  said  the  Abbe,  "would 
you  hang  from  yonder  tree  ?" 

"  It  is  thou  that  art  the  fool,  want- 
ing the  courage  of  a  hen,"  muttered 
Pepin,  between  his  teeth  ;  but  when 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 

the  Jesuit  came  up  to  them,  he  cried 
to  him  for  a  blessing. 

Cavaignac  had  few  words  to  utter, 
and  those  he  spoke  quickly. 

"  So  you  leave  the  chateau,  my 
friend,"  said  he  to  the  Abb6. 

"  How  !  You  have  not  heard  ? 
The  king's  musketeers  sleep  in  our 
house  like  swine.  Oh,  cursed  day 
that  has  robbed  me  of  board  and 
bed!" 

The  Jesuit  looked  at  him  with  hard 
contempt. 

"  And  madame ?"  he  asked. 

"  Has  crossed  the  Rhine,"  said  the 
old  man  Dominique.  "  Dieu,  what  a 
night  that  was  !  Is  there  one  that 
rides  as  she  rides  ?  Surely  it  was  her 
courage  that  saved  him  from  the 
king's  men  like  a  deer  dragged  from 
the  dogs.  And  now  she  is  with  him 
where  no  king  may  harm  her.  Bless- 
ed be  the  God  she  served  !" 

For  a  spell  the  Jesuit  was  silent. 
When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  to  the 
Abbe. 

"  Whither  go  you  now  ?"  he  asked. 
176 


"The  Little  Huguenot." 


"  Aye,  whither  go  we  now  ?"  chim- 
ed in  Pepin  ;  "to  the  devil,  so  it 
would  appear." 

"  If,  perchance,  you  could  lead  me 
to  any  shelter,"  stammered  the  Abbe, 
"  to  any  house  of  your  holy  Order 
where  I  can  be  sure  of  a  cup  of  wine 
and  a  dish  of  meat,  with  what  thanks 
will  my  heart  be  filled  !  Well  am  I 
punished  for  my  sins.  But  the  good 
God  may  yet  permit  me  to  repent. 
Oh,  that  I  should  have  no  pillow  for 
my  head,  no  drink  for  my  lips  !  You 
pity  me,  my  friend  ?" 

"Nay,"  said  the  Jesuit  suddenly, 
"why  should  I  pity  you?  Are  you 
weary,  then  take  a  pillow  of  the 
grass  ;  do  you  thirst,  there  is  the 
stream  for  your  lips  ;  if  you  hunger, 
gather  fruit  as  you  go.  But,  above 
all  things,  give  thanks  to  God  in  that 
he  has  permitted  you  still  to  sleep, 
still  to  thirst,  still  to  hunger." 

He  turned  away  with  the  words  and 
the  night  hid  him  from  their  view. 

"  Surely  the  man  has  a  devil,"  said 
the  Abbe. 


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